


the best is yet to come

by restlessvirtue



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: 2015 to 2018, F/M, comeback era yearning, healthy mix of angst and fluff and a little something something else maybe, journey to the olympics, slow to medium burn, ur fave skating parents will make an appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-04-29 16:11:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 79,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14476368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restlessvirtue/pseuds/restlessvirtue
Summary: There’s a rule: no relationships, no distractions. They make a promise to each other at the start of their comeback that proves hard to keep, for reasons they might not have seen coming (but everyone else definitely did).





	1. two flat whites

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, hey. Friendly reminder: this is all just my mixed-up, made-up wishful daydreams. Obviously, I started this long before the re-release of the book so certain details will differ as you might expect. This thing sorta combines true events with those aforementioned daydreams for something I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Also, do you ever feel like we’re all making too much of Tessa’s coffee order? Yeah, me too. Anyway…

It starts with a meeting in a coffee shop and two flat whites.

“How’ve you been, T?” he asks, bright and eager, as they sit down on opposite sides of a little square table. Despite his typically sunny demeanour, there’s an impatient air about him that she finds promising.

There have been conversations already. Many. Open-ended conversations and zero decisions. They dance around it, the question everyone wants an answer to. They’re good at that, experts in the field. Tessa thinks if dancing around the issue were an Olympic sport, they’d never have to worry about silver.

“I’ve missed you!” she confesses, taking two mugs off their tray, and those words are so true that she can’t beat about the bush.

He looks a little taken aback by her Moir-esque enthusiasm. They’ve seen each other, it hasn’t been that long, and yet it feels like _too_ long. It’s not every day. It’s not living in each other’s pockets. It’s not enough.

“I’ve missed you too,” he replies, unmistakably moved. The way he says it, meek and quiet and with an undertone of surprise in his voice, makes her want to hold him and never let go. He’s looking at her like he’s checking she really means it. And her smile says, _of course_. She slides her feet forward under the table to meet his there, as though in secret, as though anything they can’t see can go unspoken.

They find they don’t quite know where to go from there.

After a pause, he takes their tray and returns it to the counter with a polite smile for the nice lady with the lopsided name badge: _Jenna_. Tessa’s eyes are trained on him and she watches as he steels himself, taking in a deep breath before he comes back over to her. He seems a little antsy as he takes his seat again; he’s tapping his hand against his leg and then he’s running his fingers through his hair, then nodding to himself, never quite able to be still.

He attempts nonchalance: “You been thinking about a comeback at all?”

“Have you been thinking about anything else?” she retorts, arching her eyebrows.

Scott throws his head back in a laugh. “I’m that easy to read.”

She starts nodding as she watches his expression soften to an easy, unapologetic smile as he nods in time with her. She doesn’t need to tell him that his face always gives him away, doesn’t mention that she can read it like her favourite book, the one with all the false starts and detours and missed timings, the one with the happy ending.

When the silence settles, Tessa gives herself away. She lays her first card on the table: “Have you talked to Patch?”

“There’s an open invitation at Gadbois,” he answers, pleased with himself. It's the kind of pleased-with-himself that is generally reserved for boyfriends successfully slipping the waiter a little extra tip to get a last minute table.

Tessa’s smile broadens to show her teeth. She’s looking at him from across the table, her hand absently toying with her mug, a little twinkle in her eye. “I heard something like that from Marie-France.”

She remembers how Scott had said too much too fast after Sochi. They were still inside the Olympic arena when he’d begun offloading to Patch, whose quiet and calm nature only encouraged him. He’d listened as Scott told him they were done at Canton, as Tessa’s eyes had only affirmed the message in her partner's words. When he’d insisted – in an offhand scoff – that if they ever came back, the only people they wanted coaching them were Marie-France and Patrice, he’d meant it. They’d made casual promises to each other, sworn a loyalty that seemed more supportive than binding at the time. It was all abstract hypothetical, until it wasn’t anymore, until now.

“Oh yeah?” The corners of his lips turn down as he gives a comical pout. “So… you got any plans for the next couple of years, T?”

She plays along, sticking out her lower lip and giving an exaggerated shrug. “Mm, nothing concrete. Few ideas, though.” Her gaze drifts upwards, playfully avoiding his eye-line. She’s savouring their familiar badinage, soaking up that warm and cosy feeling of slipping on a favourite pair of shoes (or, maybe, skates).

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I actually…” There’s a smile teasing at her lips. “I was looking at real estate in, uh, Montreal.”

Scott gives a hum of approval.

“You know that area?”

He squints like he’s got the sun in his eyes, his head tilting to the left ever so slightly as he looks at her. “You know, this is crazy. I was planning on spending some time there, maybe.”

“What a funny coincidence.”

“If you’re not too busy, we should hang out. Grab our skates, eh?”

“Yeah, I could be up for that.”

“So, you’re in?” he asks, serious this time. He’s staring her down, drawing out her own serious side as the competitor in him fights its way to the surface. “Pyeongchang?”

“Of course I’m in,” she replies, breezy as you like, accompanying it with a dramatic eye roll and a smile. Tessa notices his shoulders drop instantly. She places her hand on his, her fingers curling around it until the tips are touching his palm. He stills. His whole body just stills. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world."

“Yeah?” he replies, his face lit up with joy, before her thoughts overflow into her words, before the moment gets the better of her and she says, “ _My hand was made to hold yours.”_

“Yeah!”

His expression is transformed by the broad grin that breaks out across his face, the kind she might not have seen since they got the gold in Vancouver. She’s squeezing his hand reassuringly, hoping he knows that she’s in this as much as he is. It’s so clear now, now that he’s finally breathed out a deep breath he might have been holding since Sochi, that he had so much hope pent up, so much that he wasn’t going to dump it all on her if it wasn’t what she wanted.

Tessa’s quite certain that even if she didn’t want to spend every day with him for the next two years (and the two years after that and so on, though she can’t begin to think about that yet), the way his face screws up into a smile would be enough to tempt her. He looks like a kid again, with eyes thin as his cheeks lift and a smile so big, it stretches from ear to ear.

“I want to do this for them, too: Marie-France and Patrice. I wanna win gold for them,” he declares very decidedly, his free hand gesticulating wildly as he speaks. He’s suddenly full of energy, like he can finally talk about a million things he’d had bottled up: dreams and ideas and ambitions. This passionate, driven man is a version of him she’s yearned to see again for so long, and the loyalty of his sentiment, his determination to return years of support and advice from their mentors, reminds her that he hasn’t really changed at all. He’s her Scott returned to her, at last. He’d been waiting on her all along.

In the nearly 20 years since she’d first placed her fragile little heart in his hands, she’d never needed it back. He’d wandered off with it a few times, he’d made his mistakes, but he’d never been gone long enough for her to doubt that he would come back to her.

He was back.

They were back.

She felt it instantly. That Virtue and Moir magic.

She’s nodding emphatically at every excited word he’s saying. They’ve talked about this so much over the last two years but now that the decision is made, it feels different. It feels better than they ever hoped it might. There’s a certainty within them that it’ll be better this time, it’ll be everything they ever dreamed an Olympic cycle could be but never quite was before. An old rhythm has been restored, but this time it feels shiny and new again.

“There is one thing,” she says eventually, a cautious tone setting in that steadies him.

He looks at her expectantly, waiting on that one thing.

“I want us to do this together and I think it needs to be just us,” Tessa explains carefully, exact with every word, “for a little while. No relationships, no distractions. If we come back, I want us to be better than we ever were. We have to do it differently, you know, Scott? It’s just two years.

“Canton just…” And she stops because that word, the word they rarely speak aloud, tastes bitter on her tongue. “It all felt a bit like being trapped in high school by the end, eh? The messy relationships and rivalries and hurt feelings, everyone knowing each other’s business.”

She’s holding his eye contact without seeming to blink, studying his expression as he takes in what she’s suggesting. She doesn’t want to have to break it down; she doesn’t want to explain her jealousy or confusion or angst to him.

Firmly, she finishes: “This is a fresh start for us and we don’t need drama. I want us to be able to focus. On us. On our skating. On gold.”

Scott slowly leans back in his chair, his hand slipping back from hers to wrap around the mug of hot coffee that he is still yet to touch. She sees him swallow, then he lifts his eyes to meet hers and says, simply, “I can do that.”

She scrutinises him, worried that she’s picking up on a little hesitation and worried that a little hesitation now will build up a wall between them later. “Promise?”

“I promise you, Tess,” and this time he sounds so certain. “No fucking around.”

He holds his mug out to hers and they clink them like they’re champagne flutes. Tessa looks up at him through her eyelashes as she takes a sip. She hides her smile against the rim of the mug but he catches it there, mirroring her as he lifts his own coffee to his lips. 

He lets out a long, satisfied “ah” after he swallows, before: “Dream team!” 

“Dream team,” she affirms, a giggle of excitement escaping her.


	2. shopping cart

When they make the move to Montreal, they’re on their own again. Their new team quickly becomes a part of their lives, a welcoming world that reignites their passion for their sport, but friends and family are miles away and it’s an adjustment. It’s the two of them again as one unit.

Naturally, they end up spending a lot of time together on and off the ice.

They become immovable parts of each other’s lives, each other’s routines. They rediscover their shorthand, their private language made up of words and looks and broken sentences. In fact, they might be worse now than they ever were in Canton. They don’t even have an age difference to separate them, the two years between them meaningless at this point in their storied careers. They’re equals now, clinging unashamedly to each other for safety and comfort and _home_. There are no hovering love interests to raise their eyebrows at risqué touches or lingering glances. They’re on their own, with no rules except the one they’ve imposed on themselves.

They move into the same building. That’s how they fall effortlessly into new and old patterns. That’s how they make it over 100 days straight of seeing each other. 

They exchange spare keys and quickly the distinction between their two homes begins to blur. That distinction is entirely aesthetic. Hers is tidy and white, filled with succulents, photo frames, books; his is bare and a little rough around the edges, little sign of life to be found.

Tessa allows herself to get used to these entangled lives that they’re living. There are no conversations about it, and it’s either because they’re too scared to broach the subject or it all comes easy enough that they don’t need to talk. She considers that it’s some odd combination of both, if it’s possible. Because there are things she would say, but when he’s around her, it’s like he can read her mind. Every time he comes by her place, he fits so comfortably into her world that she barely notices how ubiquitous he becomes. He slots into place. Like always. Like nobody else ever has.

Scott drives them both to the rink in the mornings, always leaving it as late as possible for her sake and always coming with a coffee in hand to soften the blow. He doesn’t know that the routine is now so welcome and familiar to her that she wakes up a little earlier each day, willing him to arrive.

When he comes inside, letting himself in to save her the effort, he perches against the back of her sofa and watches patiently as she hurriedly moves around the open plan space, grabbing and tidying and searching and checking. She’s a whirlwind, but she knows what she’s doing and is grateful never to hear, “What are you looking for?” or “Hurry up!” or “Why aren’t you ready?”

He waits, uttering only morning greetings that require no response.

Tessa only stills when she gets to him, his hand holding out a coffee cup to deliver that first golden sip of the day. _And breathe_. 

“Good morning,” she says, fixing a smile for him.

That’s when the day starts. That’s when the sun comes up, his face brightening with an enthusiastic expression to match hers. When he smiles, it starts with his eyes; they soften and sparkle, as deepening lines appear at the corners. He doesn’t just smile, he beams. So, that’s what gets Tessa out of bed in the morning – and if it can keep doing the trick every morning for two years, well, then, they might just be onto a gold.

He swings the car keys around his index finger as they fall into stride together on the way out of her condo. “What’s it gonna be for the car ride today, kiddo? Your pick.”

“Are you gonna let me choose Hall & Oates?”

“No.”

“Well, then—" 

“You can have anyone else in the world, just not Hall and Oates! How are you not sick of Hall & Oates?” He throws his arms up theatrically.

“True love lasts a lifetime!” is her perky response, before she considers his wording and seeks a little clarification: “ _Anyone_ else?”

And that’s how they end up listening to Celine Dion. He groans for the first 30 seconds, but he’s soon playing along just like she knew he would, like he always does, fist-clenching his way through ‘Because You Loved Me’ as Tessa sways from side to side in the passenger seat. She’s been turning the music up incrementally the whole way until Scott is straining his voice to be heard over the speakers, as he pleadingly carries on: “ _You’ve been my inspiration, through the lies you were the truth, my world is a better place because of you-hooooooo_ …”

Once unleashed, he can’t be stopped. She’s gazing at him, wondering if he means the words he’s singing the way her heart wants him to. When they pull up to the rink and he turns the engine off, he carries on unaccompanied by his backing track. She wonders if perhaps that’s her answer. “ _I’m everything I am because you,_ ” he pauses for dramatic effect, “ _loved me_.” 

It’s undone by the melodramatic air grabs and the lack of tunefulness, but not entirely. Tessa rolls her eyes and steps out of the car, feeling a tightening in her chest that she opts to ignore for now.

“Come on, Celine. Time for work,” she announces as she reaches for her kit bag, avoiding eye contact.

As she strides off to their practice session, he follows obediently, bouncing along behind her. When Scott catches up, he starts walking backwards to hold her attention, grinning at her as he says, “Another day holding my hand awaits. You should look more excited, T.”

“If you’re lucky.” She shakes her head. “We gotta work on the non-touching midline step sequence.”

Scott gives her a silly pout before turning on his heels to walk through the double doors, opening one for her before following along again. As they get to the spot where the hallway diverges to the two changing rooms, they reach out to clap their palms together lightly in a low-five before they separate. It’s so routine, they don’t even look down.

When they get on the ice, they’re like kids again: giddy and gleeful. It’s like that early butterflies stage of falling in love as they savour the feeling of their blades running along the ice every time they set foot in the rink. Every piece of coaching advice they get is taken to the letter, every note corrected, every new move practiced until they have it mastered. They delight in the details in a way they never have before.

As the end of the Prince medley plays out over the speakers, ‘Purple Rain’ fading away, she wonders if this feeling will ever grow old. They’re developing two programs that they love, they have coaches who feel like family, like nurturing, knowledgeable parents, and then there’s having each other back and all to themselves.

They’re pulling one another around the ice, disguising an evidently mutual desire to be close with the same tactile game they’ve been playing for years. One minute they’re talking normally, the next he’s picking her up from behind and squeezing her like she’s an oversized stuffed toy. One minute he’s talking normally to Guillaume, the next she’s kneed him in the ass and the Frenchman has to catch his fall. One minute she’s got her hoodie on, the next it’s been thrown over the boards.

“You love me really,” he says without a thought. She’s nudging him until she’s not, until she freezes, gives a surrendering hum of agreement and lets him go.

He moves behind her and wraps his arms around her so that she’s locked inside his embrace. She settles against him and lets Scott push her around the ice like he’s leaning on a shopping cart.

“We’re meant to be the role models here,” Tessa points out, her protest not quite reflected in her body language.

“This is serious, technical stuff, Tess. This is the celebrated ‘shopping cart’ move; _veeeery_ popular with the judges these days,” he insists, putting on a faux authoritative tone as he continues pushing her, his own body flush against hers. “Things’ve changed in our absence. You gotta catch up.”

Tessa bursts out laughing at him again and lets him carry on until Patch calls them over, pulling them back into work mode. (She catches herself before she says, _“_ Sorry, Dad! _”_ aloud but it momentarily crosses her mind.) They transition smoothly into their choreography, their faces transformed with focus as they try to nail down the intricacies of their short dance footwork. When they finally manage a clean run-through of their new steps, Scott immediately twirls around for a high-10 that Tessa seems to anticipate, her arms already in motion as he lifts his palms to face her.

“I’ll make dinner later, if you like,” she offers as they catch their breath, gliding over to the boards to find out what Patrice has to say about their efforts.

“Yeah, okay. I was in the mood for eggs anyway,” he agrees, a hand rubbing his belly as he leans back. 

She’s rolling her eyes and shaking her head. “Shut up.”

“That’s no way to talk to your skating partner, T,” he tells her, wrapping a lazy arm around her shoulder so that they slide towards their coach side-by-side. “Come on.”

“I was _actually_ going to try a recipe for a bolognese."

Scott bumps his fist to her arm. “You know you could do anything and I’d still come.”

It hangs in the air for a minute before he brushes it off: “I can’t wait to try this bolognese. Family recipe or—”

“Jamie Oliver.”

He nods. 

“But my mom gave me the book, so…”

“Oh, that counts,” he assures her with a warm, easy smile.

Tessa looks up at him, studying his expression. It’s easy to stay there, to stay gazing at the big, goofy grin that he reserves just for her. It’s only when they hit the boards in front of Patrice that her head snaps back around to face their coach, whose own expression isn’t dissimilar.

Hours later, she attempts that dinner she had so confidently promised him.

The intention is there. The ingredients are too. But things go a little off-piste after two of the recipe pages get stuck together, and it takes Scott’s help to save it. He pours her a glass of red, leads her with his hands on her shoulders to a kitchen stool and pulls up his sleeves.


	3. optimum sleeping situation

They have no regrets. Not as they’re being tasked with 20 more excruciating reps in the gym, him with the resistance bands and her with the Swiss ball (because the view’s not so bad). Not as they pore over every detail of playback on Patch’s iPad (because it’s getting better, little by little). Not as they pull up at Gadbois well before 7am for another long day (because they’re _together_ , in every sense).

Even with High Performance Camp looming and pre-performance nerves kicking in early, it's outweighed by their hunger to compete and the joy they find in working together. When they go out on the ice, they find more energy than they’ve had since they were just kids. The way ‘Kiss’ bursts out of the speakers electrifies them, makes every flick of the wrist pop, sharp and light and fresh. They feel it as they move. There’s a smugness in Tessa’s smile that she just can’t shake when he’s lighting sparks all around her, and it works. It works for the dance.

Sometimes she feels as though he’s doing all this just to charm her. The way he playfully dances around her as they open the routine is Marie and Sam’s collaboration, but the look in his eye and the smile on his lips? That’s Scott. _For the performance_ , she reminds herself.

She has to remind herself a lot these days.

When he turns up one morning with a dashing new haircut – not too short, but a little smarter – she catches him running his fingers through it as he greets her. Tessa says nothing. She can see him fishing, sees his gaze fixed on her for a reaction and pretends not to notice a thing. In fact, the first comment she makes about it is when they see Gaby and Guillaume coming onto the ice as they step off.

“She’ll comment on the haircut, I bet you,” Tessa teases him with a smug grin. “She’ll tell you how handsome you look.”

“Tess, stop.”

She puts her hands up in surrender.

“You _do_ look handsome.” She nudges him and then ruffles his hair like she’s petting a puppy. “I’m just betting that it doesn’t go unnoticed.”

“You’re just trying to wind me up,” he replies, shaking his head.

“We can shake on it if you like,” she offers, holding out a hand. The look in her eye is so self-satisfied, he can’t resist taking her up on it.

The forfeit is cooking dinner, as though he wasn’t always planning on doing exactly that – like most nights. Dinner for them means two different things according to their new nutrition specialist though, so he’s got two separate meals on the go in her kitchen as she flicks through her phone, leaning on the island counter. Occasionally, she’ll get over-excited about some obscure photo she’s been tagged in and tug his sleeve to show him a throwback to their early years, or a funny gif of a long-forgotten moment.

“Real romantic meal, eh?” he jokes as he hands her a plate, the very picture of nouveau cuisine – even if it is limited to a particular checklist of vegetables, protein and carbs.

She lets his slip slide and replies, “You’re doing better than you think are.”

They eat in contented silence, sneaking not-so-coy glances at each other. At the end of the meal, there’s barely a crumb left on her plate.

Afterwards, Tessa washes up and Scott dries.

He keeps a dishtowel draped over his shoulder as he puts her plates and cutlery into the assigned drawer or cupboard. When he’s done, he pulls it off and throws it so that it lands flat over her face. The sudden, unwelcome mask doesn’t conceal her head shaking before she grabs one end of it and gives him a light wallop in the chest with the damp cloth.

To escape the whip of the dishtowel, he scoops her over his shoulder so that she’s hanging upside down, trying to gain some control over a fit of giggles. It’s not an unfamiliar position to her given their profession, so she quickly adjusts even as he squeezes her legs tight to prevent an escape. Tessa uses her hard-won core strength to pull her bodyweight up so that she’s towering over him, vertical as he clings to her calves. Her hands move to rest on his shoulders to steady herself, his face presses against her midriff.

Just as she acclimatizes, his hold changes suddenly, letting her slide down and escape his loosening grasp. The way his firm, flat hand feels on the back of her thigh as they come apart, the way she can feel its outline pressing into her makes her avoid his eye contact on her descent. It makes her say, nonchalantly, “You wanna watch a film or something?”

She’s half turned away before she’s finished asking.

They end up sat on the couch together in front of her TV. She flicks through the channels before landing upon _When Harry Met Sally_. He doesn’t protest; he just warns her, “This better have a happy ending. I don’t want to get to the end and they’re just… bickering friends.”

“Scott,” she says, part impatient and part amused. “It’s a Hollywood movie. You know how this ends.”

“I can hope,” he replies, and her face freezes facing the screen but her eyes move sharply to look at him – a reflex – before she forces her attention back to the television. _His jaw was clenching. It was definitely clenching_.

They don’t make it through the film. Scott falls asleep somewhere in the middle but Tessa makes it almost all the way, and the last thing she remembers as her blinks become increasingly heavy and frequent is Harry running to tell Sally, “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon possible.”

She doesn’t make it to the end. Almost, but not quite.

The film plays out in the background as Tessa’s head nestles into the curve of her partner’s neck, as his arm falls from the back of the sofa to envelop her.

_“We were friends for a long time.”_

_“And then we weren’t.”_

_“And then we fell in love.”_  

They wake up an indeterminate amount of time later, lying tangled in each other across her sofa, the decorative pillows she’d brought from her house in London strewn all over the place. Scott stirs first, awoken by gentle writhing; she only wakes as he shifts underneath her, rolling his head back like he’s trying to get rid of a crick in his neck. She lets herself be asleep just a few more minutes even then.

Her head is flat against his chest and she finds herself reluctant to lift it. It’s firm and solid beneath her, and all she wants now is to burrow deeper, edge closer, press harder. To dare him to lose control. The heat of his body so close to hers, it feels impossible to ignore. She’s too tired to fight instinct.

The way they lie together, it’s like she fits there. It’s as though Scott’s left the puzzle unfinished so that she can be the one to put that last piece in place. His arm stretches out along the line of her back as if to keep her tight to him.

“This is probably not the optimum sleeping situation for Olympic champions,” he says in a sleepy moan, his voice rough and uneven. Even as he says it, he does nothing to stand or move her off him.

She feels herself blush as she moves to sit up, hyper-aware of his gaze in her periphery. His eyes are burning into her skin. It’s like he’s not fully awake yet, not fully in control of his faculties. When she turns to look back at him, she finds his eyes dark and daring and full of possibilities. And then he swallows and his face relaxes to a smile, and it’s gone again. It’s gone so quickly, she’s left wondering if it was ever there.

“Stay,” Tessa hears herself say.

“What?" 

“Let’s just… sleep in my bed." 

“Is this because you want me to carry you?” His lips tilt to one side in a warm half-smile.

“Yes.”

She catches a soft, delicate, “Okay.”

Tessa shifts enough to allow him to move out from under her. He turns back around once he’s standing and holds both hands out to her, pulling her up before sweeping her off her feet into a bridal hold. It’s something resembling the first lift they ever learned, except that once she’s settled in his arms, she’s no help at all. She’s deadweight there, half-asleep again, if she was ever fully awake. She’s got her hands around his neck, but her head rests limply on the line of his shoulder. 

It’s easy to find comfort in his arms. His hold is solid. She’s not going anywhere. Except bed. With Scott.

When he reaches her bedroom, he shifts her to free up one hand so he can open the door. She gives a drowsy moan. The next thing she knows, he’s lifting back the covers with one hand and lowering her into the bed with the other. As he goes to pull back, her hands stay locked around his neck, refusing to let him up. 

“Tessa.” He’s laughing uneasily, reaching both of his hands to pull hers apart. She pouts a little before letting him go, dropping her arms to settle above the covers. She realizes she’s still dressed in the sweats she’d quickly changed into when he’d been cooking, but it’ll do; it’s close enough to pyjamas.

“Scott?” she moans when the warmth of him is gone too long.

“I’m just gonna take off my pants and my hoodie. That okay, T?” he asks with uncertainty. 

“Mm,” she replies into her pillow, curling towards the center of the bed, still trying to get comfortable as she continues to shift against the mattress.

“How are you more restless in bed than when we were lying on the couch?”

She laughs into the pillow, not opening her eyes.

“I’m serious. Do you need restraints?” he teases her. “I can hold you down until you doze off. Would that help?”

“Scott,” she warns him. Of what, she doesn’t know.

When he gets in beside her, she edges closer, folding into his side so that her head finds his chest again: firm and strong underneath her, rising and falling in soothing repetition. Her hand finds its way to him too, moving in slow strokes across his abs before she balls his t-shirt into her fist and stills. It’s possessive and she’ll know that only when she thinks about this hazy memory in the morning.

His gentle fingers absently lift the hair from her face before he brings his arm down to rest against the line of her body.

She sleeps better than she has in months.


	4. an extra rotation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been really touched by the kindness of your comments so I wanted to say thank you for that. I hope you enjoy this next part! Thank you, thank you. :')

They act like they’re together. A couple.

They hold hands in hallways. They kiss cheeks and foreheads. They sleep in the same bed any night they can find an excuse (“You might as well just stay here,” she’ll insist, before: “You’re not sleeping on the couch, don’t be silly.” Neither one of them mentions the spare room). But ice dance, maintaining that closeness for their sport and their art, is the loophole they depend on to avoid the conversation. They can’t even try to hide it. They mess around in interviews, laughing at each other’s stupid jokes, cheating at the silly games they are made to play. She wonders if his heart skips the same beat as hers when they don’t cheat and still match perfectly.

Everything they do is in sync. Without intention or planning. Their whole lives are lived in perfect synchronicity. (And when they’re not, their world is off-kilter.)

But they’re _not_ a couple. They don’t kiss on the lips. Well, not properly. Brushing lips isn’t the same thing, she tells herself. And when they sleep together, it’s just that. They sleep. And they acclimatize to the heat between them, which seems to amplify with every day that passes.

It’s been more than two years since she last felt his lips brush against hers. That’s all it ever was. A delicate, teasing dance inside a fixed hold. Never stepping too close.

And then they’re coming out of their big rotational lift, faces close, faces almost touching and then they are. Touching lips. The gravitational pull of the spinning lift makes it impossible to keep the touch feather-light. It’s a press. It’s hard and unyielding and part of her wonders what happens if they continue to spin, but she’s the one in the air, she’s the one following his lead.

Scott turns into an extra rotation and she wonders if he’s read her mind, wonders how long they can stay like this, gravity be damned. She feels weightless, like they’re two bodies floating through space, clinging to each other like they’re all they have.

The exit is clumsy. Clumsier than anything they’ve done in weeks.

When they come apart, she remembers where they are. They fall out of the choreography and Tessa catches sight of her mother watching from the boards, a curious expression on her face that’s not exactly a first.

Scott skates away, adjusting his waistband as he lets the ice pull him along. He grabs his water bottle from further down the boards than Kate’s viewpoint, squeezes a hard burst into his mouth and then starts to turn back towards them.

“Sorry, that was me.”

“No,” Tessa argues, her tone a little stilted.

That’s when her mother helpfully chimes in, knowing exactly what to say and, more crucially, what not to say. “The choreography is beautiful. Elegant and moving, and the edges,” and she carries on gushing about the details of the program, filling a brief interlude between partners with welcome enthusiasm. It’s almost entirely new material to her, their rehearsal doubling as a showcase to Kate. Her response is energizing for both of them – even after the positive feedback they’d received at the Skate Canada High Performance Camp. The comeback brings with it a constant underlying feeling of terror and exhilaration in equal measure.

They go over the routine a few more times in pieces, skipping out that particular lift without a word. Instinct dictates the way they come in and out of the choreography together, but even the other elements – every element, really – forces feeling to the surface. Not even Kate’s watchful eyes upon them can extinguish the inherent emotion as ‘Pilgrims on a Long Journey’ transitions into ‘Latch’.

“It’s one of the most beautiful programs you’ve ever done. That connection is so… _palpable_ ,” she’s telling them both back at the condo, long after the practice session is over. Scott’s busy in the kitchen as Tessa and her mother sit chatting at the table.

“Scott does pretty much all of the cooking for us,” Tessa had explained offhandedly as they’d come in. He’d opened her fridge straight away, knowing full well that a hungry Tessa doesn’t bear thinking about. Her mother might’ve been forgiven for misinterpreting the “us”. She hadn’t; she knew them too well. She knew better than to get her hopes up.

She had simply raised an eyebrow and asked, “In _your_ home?”

“Yeah,” her daughter then replied cheerily. And he’d refused to let either one of them assist, pulling out two chairs and ushering them to sit down just to dodge any protest.

So, as mother and daughter make up for lost time with family gossip and favourite books and costume talk, Scott quietly makes dinner in the background (cooking up a Kate Virtue favourite, along with a B2Ten speciality for himself and Tessa), only occasionally chiming into the conversation. Somehow, this feels more intimate than if he’d sat down to talk with them or if they’d all gone out for dinner. The ease of having him around, having him taking care of her and her mother feels more personal than if he’d made a big thing of it. But it’s not a big thing. It’s a thousand small things.

It’s the way he cuts the carrots into sticks instead of circles because that’s just how she prefers. It’s the way she catches him biting his lip as he arranges everything onto plates just so. It’s the way he lays the table without saying a word as the two women are caught up in their catch-up; Tessa’s so busy eking out every morsel of gossip that she doesn’t notice him counting out the cutlery. 

He’s not doing it to impress Kate. He’s not doing it because he has to. He does it because it comes naturally, because he’d rather spend the evening with the Virtues than alone with The Sports Network.

Even as they sit down to eat, despite the way he subtly (probably unconsciously) edges his chair a little closer, he’s quieter than Tessa anticipates. Scott lets them dominate the conversation with all the latest news from London, Ontario. He only chimes in when directly addressed, when Kate asks him, "How've you been adapting to things here, Scott?" 

"Having the time of my life," is his eager response. The words spill out of him unchecked. "It's hard – harder than it ever used to be, of course, harder than I imagined. The body’s not quite working the same. Physically, I’m, uh… yeah, it’s a challenge. But it’s the most fun, eh?” 

“We’re so well supported. We get so much time with Patch and Marie, Sam, J.F., and with all the B2Ten guys, and we’re really on the same page this year with the programs,” she continues, finding a rhythm with him instantly. Her speech is hastened by the way it unconsciously mimics his cadence.

"Tessa's…" He shakes his head, like the words aren't enough – or like he can't find the right ones. He tries again: "She's finding the glide of her blade better than she ever has. I'm just trying to keep up. That's the hardest part, actually."

Kate just looks at him warmly, and Tessa feels the urge to place an affectionate hand on his cheek. She resists it. She knows how it'll appear.

After they clean up, he tries to slip away quietly. A hand on Kate's shoulder, a kiss to her cheek and a parting hug with Tessa, his hand lingering on her waist. "I'm gonna head off, but it's so great to see you," he tells Kate, and there’s such profound sincerity to it, his eyebrows arching and a hand over his heart, it catches Tessa off-guard. “It’s always nice to get an entirely biased opinion. I might call my own mother down here next time I need the boost.”

"You don't need to go, Scott," she insists, reading her daughter's slightly forlorn eyes. Tessa says nothing, keeping a tight smile as she watches the warm rapport play out between her partner and her mother.

"You guys have a lot to catch up on, I'm sure,” he says, his hand finally slipping from its place – its rightful place – on Tessa’s waist. “Family stuff. You don't need me cramping your style."

There's easy affection in the way Kate rolls her eyes and says, " _Scott_." He looks up, as though reprimanded. "You're family."

Scott looks from Kate to Tessa, a red flush blooming in his cheeks as they both return his gaze with beaming confidence. He hugs them quickly one more time, shuffling backwards as he leaves. It's hard to argue. It's hard to stop him without saying aloud, “ _You belong here_.” She can't say what she wants to, not a word of it, so she lets him disappear with nothing but, “I’ll see you bright and early!" 

Kate turns back to Tessa once the door closes. “He didn’t need to leave on my account.” 

“He doesn’t live here, mom. He’s got other stuff to do,” she replies a little too defensively; it’s a false performance in denial of everything her expression had given away while he’d still been standing there. It’s not even remotely convincing, and Tessa can feel the probing gaze of her mother burning holes into her skin.

“Sweetheart, there’s Nivea For Men in your bathroom, a Leafs jersey in your laundry pile and a smile fixed to your face that’s got his signature all over it. Plus, I don’t think you need two toothbrushes on the go,” Kate points out, reeling off a not-even-slightly comprehensive list that’s hard to argue with.

“Sometimes I like to change it up…” Tessa replies weakly.

As she looks around her, the clues are dotted everywhere like house ornaments. It’s like a veil lifted, something she herself hadn’t noticed happening as it built up piece by little piece. Now it’s obvious. He’s everywhere. The hoodie she’d folded up for him in a neat pile on the sofa. Two pairs of skates – one black and one white – resting against each other near the doorway. The picture in the frame that’s got pride of place on the bookshelf.

Tessa realizes what it looks like. Not quite what it is. 

“We’re not—”

“I know,” Kate replies quickly, drawing in a long breath. “Sweetheart, all I want is for you to be happy. I’m not asking you to put it in a box for my sake, okay? Just protect it. Whatever it is.”

There’s quiet for a long moment before Tessa dares to speak again, barely above a whisper. “I think… he loves me.”

“Yes.”

“I think I…” She hesitates, but she needn’t finish the sentence.

“Yes,” her mother repeats with added certainty. She doesn’t need the end of the sentence to tell her the words that Tessa can’t speak. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Protect it,” is Tessa’s delicate reply along a steady exhale.


	5. one-to-one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really never expected the response to this fic that it’s had so I wanted to thank you again for that. Your comments have motivated me so much with this and the last chapter felt like… well, I was a lil bit overwhelmed, I’ll admit. Thank you so much. Also, suddenly feeling the pressure a bit! Ha! 
> 
> After that last update, I really felt like it was important to give you more context for Tessa’s mindset within this fic – especially given the response to the exchange with Kate at the end of that chapter. Slow and steady wins the race and all that? Don’t worry, the next chapter will be back to your regularly scheduled Scott-heavy content. I’m really excited for you to read the next few so I hope you’ll stick with me!

When that funny thing between them that they don’t talk about starts to happen, starts to pull them together like magnets, their safe place is inside the dance. Anything can happen if they’re dancing; the rules are different. They dance to be close even when they can’t be off the ice. So, they spend more time on the ice, go over step sequences a few more times than necessary, and if everyone else puts it down to their commitment and dedication to the sport, that’s just fine.

There’s electricity between them all the time but he’s so easy to be around, it feels safe enough. He’s hard to resist when he’s searching her out in a crowd and wrapping her up in his arms and singing terribly out of tune pop songs over her car stereo.

It’s become this reliable, unknowable thing. They’re inseparable. He’s restless whenever she’s not within his sights and her face goes blank of its default smile when he’s not around. The other skaters treat them like they belong to each other; there are little comments, unintentional and indifferent – “Your man’s got moves” or “Where’s your other half?” or “Can you give this to Scott for me?” She wants to say that he’s not _hers_ , but she can’t bring herself. Besides, the defensiveness of it would be more telling than her silence. She wonders what Scott says when they do it to him and she’s not there. She wonders if he lets it slide, wonders if he smiles to himself when they look away.

They spend the morning in Sam’s studio for a dance workout. 

Scott’s wearing a headband that he might have stolen from her now that she thinks about it, sweat-dampened hair sticking up at all angles to frame his face. He looks more than a little bit ridiculous and his self-satisfied smile says he knows it. Every time she looks at him in the mirror, a full body laugh escapes her. Sam is the only thing holding them together, stopping the whole exercise from falling into exhausted, lying-on-the-floor laughter.

After lunch, she’s got her weekly one-to-one at B2Ten with Jean François. Scott insists on dropping her off, then hangs around the place to check in with some of the team. Because he’s suddenly got half a dozen new best friends.

“How are things with Scott?” J.F. asks, not long into their session. They’ve covered fatigue and nerves and he’ll get around to asking about their priorities for the ACI soon, but this question lingers first. He asks it casually, but the air in the room changes instantly.

Her lips part as though she’s going to speak but nothing comes.

The thing about J.F. is – and this is true of most of the sports psychologists she’s worked with, but especially J.F. – he can outlast Tessa in any silence. She’s used to only having to wait out Scott, who has so urgent a disposition that he’ll always interrupt their quiet with a question or a quip.

“Has he said something?” she asks eventually, measured and self-conscious in her curiosity. Because it’s certainly been on her mind.

J.F. is rigid in his response: “That’s not how this works, Tessa." 

She manages to hold his eye-line but bites her lip. She’s searching for something of an answer in his countenance, even if his words shut her down. This, too, is always easier with Scott.

“How do _you_ feel things are with Scott?” J.F. pushes, amending his earlier question ever so slightly.

Again, she makes him wait. She has to decide how honest she wants to be, how much she really wants to get out of this meeting. It’s confidential, of course, so the immediate risk is minimal, but exposing herself to anyone is an unnatural proposition – even if he, more than anyone else they work with, has learned every awkward detail of their story through countless shared and individual sessions.

“I have some concerns,” she admits.

“Okay.”

“That lines are getting… a little blurred.”

“For you or for Scott?” J.F. asks with a knitted brow, his expression an etching of unease.

“Both of us. It’s getting harder and harder to know what’s real and what’s just,” she sighs heavily, “skating.”

J.F. puts the notepad he’s been scrawling in to one side and leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His eyes are searching her now. She suddenly feels conscious that she’s said too much.

Tessa takes in a deep breath.

“I know we shouldn’t ever—" 

“Hold on, Tessa. This isn’t Canton or any of the other schools you’ve worked at before. I worry you’re self-policing,” J.F. interrupts. It’s an unusual move for him.

She raises her eyebrows without surprise, simply resigned acknowledgement.

“You’re free to make decisions for yourselves. I’m here to help you be in the best space mentally to perform, yes, and that means whatever it means for you,” he reassures her, with the ready concern of a steadfast friend. “Marie-France and Patrice are quite aware they’re in no position to be setting those kinds of rules, and they haven’t.”

She gives him a laugh at that, but it’s a brief, dry one before her expression turns sombre, before she adds, “It’s just a dangerous thing. I don’t want it to ruin what we have. We’re doing well, the practices have been…” Her sentence trails off as her imagination takes hold, thoughts drifting to a highlight reel of recent memories: spectacular lifts and new dance steps and the sharpest twizzle sequences they’ve ever performed. She doesn’t need any coach to supervise or restrain her when it comes to Scott anymore; it’s drilled in. Years at Arctic Edge have internalized it. “We could have our best season if we do this right.”

Tessa comes out of her reverie to look back up at her mental prep coach again. His expression is warm, his demeanour a patient one.

All at once, a feeling comes over her. It’s a cocktail of fear: of losing Scott, of having him and losing him, of losing everything they’ve built together.

“I always thought that when the skating part was over, we’d get to the good part. It was always so hard…” Tessa’s gentle voice starts to break. "And painful. Every day felt like a battle.” Her eyelashes flutter in a fit of blinks as she continues, “I did love it too, but mostly… I loved _him_. But he disappeared after. When the skating part was over, it was all over. He had two years, and… nothing.”

She breathes out a breath so deep that her chest heaves visibly.

“But now, _this_ , this is the good part. We’ve finally got it figured out.” She clears her throat, and her eyes widen a little as she sits up a little straighter. “And if this is as good as it gets, it’s pretty good, eh? Because when I think about the way we were, compared to how we are now...

“I know he needed a break from everything after Sochi. He fell out of love with skating and skating fell out of love with us, and we needed a break.” She reels it all off quickly, not wanting to linger on any particular part of this memory before finishing, her voice small and brittle, “But for Scott, that meant a break from me too.”

Tessa wipes her forefinger under her eyes in two swift, efficient strokes before scrunching her nose. She doesn’t look at J.F. for a minute, searches around his room for somewhere to focus, for anything else to zero in on. Eventually, her eyes settle on the clock. Ticking and ticking and ticking.

He waits, and then says, in a tone as soft as her own, “He couldn’t separate the two.”

“But maybe for Scott, it’s all one and the same,” she offers back. “He’s rediscovered his love for skating and competition again. He’s so happy, I can see it.” Her own eyes light up a little at that. “He comes alive every time we step on the ice. He eats everything the team tells him to even though he hates half of it, he follows every bit of advice Patch gives him, lets me drag him to extra dance practices, does extra reps in the gym. He’s all in.” Tessa speaks with such profound pride in her voice, boastful of him, this wonderful partner that she has. “But that can only last so long. He’s focused on the Olympics, that singular goal. What if the look in his eye is more about all of that?”

“Is that what you believe it is?”

She doesn’t answer. Because she doesn’t know the answer. Tessa’s looking straight ahead at J.F., considering his question as tears start to pool at the corners of her eyes. The intensity of the interaction overcomes her.

“Are you angry with Scott?” J.F. asks as her. There’s no judgment in his tone. Only caution.

“No, I’m not angry at him. I was never any good at staying mad at Scott,” she says with an empty laugh. “We’ve talked about all of that. I knew why… I knew how it got. But he broke my heart,” and this, this fragile confession barely above a whisper, is what prompts the tears sparkling in her eyes to fall down her cheeks at last. There's some relief in it, like wipers clearing the windscreen; she can see a little clearer. “I don’t want to break his. I don’t want to find out down the line that we mistook chemistry for love, for something that could actually be sustained. He’s impulsive and he doesn’t think it all through, only what he feels – or _thinks_ he feels.”

“So you feel you have to be cautious?”

“I’m the head, he’s the heart. That’s who we are, who we’ve always been,” she says with a shrug. Suddenly embarrassed as she begins to compose herself, she’s quick to add, “I’m sorry. This isn’t what we’re supposed to be talking about.”

“Whatever’s on your mind, whatever’s worrying you – that’s what we’re supposed to be talking about,” he insists. “He’s older now, Tessa. He can handle his emotions a lot better than he used to, wouldn’t you say? Can’t you talk to Scott?”

“Would you even want me to? The season’s barely started,” she scoffs, the prospect of all the months ahead is a daunting one when put like that. “We’ve got a year to get our ducks in a row for the Olympic season. I don’t want us to explode. Not after we’ve promised an entire country that we'll fight for this gold medal, and our families and ourselves.”

“Bottling it up, though – you can surely see how that could lead to the whole thing imploding?”

“I’ll… figure it out,” she says, the uncertainty of her statement bringing up bile in her throat. Dismissively, Tessa then tries to cover herself: “I’m probably just… over-thinking. When I’m on my own, I think one thing. When we’re together, I feel something else.”

They talk for another half an hour. She artfully steers the conversation towards the impending ACI, and J.F. lets her. 

When she comes out of the session, she finds Scott waiting there for her. His eyes lift from his phone when she appears and his entire face alters, brightening with a sudden burst of energy that carries through his whole body. He stands to greet her, instantly and effortlessly bursting out with, “T! My mom just sent me videos of some of the kids back home and you gotta see how cute they are!”

He doesn’t give her a chance to argue, and she’s grateful that his enthusiasm covers her residual melancholy. She’s grateful he’s too distracted to notice the pinkness around her eyes.

Scott finds the video in a text thread with Alma and turns the phone landscape, though the footage itself has been filmed in portrait. He presses his finger hard on the screen to get it to start. Together, at the side of the hallway, just outside J.F.’s office, they perch on a windowsill and watch two Ilderton kids – no more than 13 – gliding around the ice together. It’s a peppy little waltz, with perfect hold, perfect unison. Tessa can see the two of them grinning brightly at each other and it’s infectious. In her periphery, Scott’s bobbing his head gently to the music. 

“Oh, watch this part, right… _here_ ,” he says, his finger hitting the screen just as he says the word, as the female dancer extends her arm in a polished, balletic movement reminiscent of Tessa herself. They move into a series of spins, the motion timed perfectly with the orchestral music that they’re dancing to. 

“In that one, she just needs to take it right to her fingertips,” she notes as the pair move quickly into the next movement. Then there’s an ever-so-slight stumble. “They’re tiring a little, just need to stay focused. Posture.”

He chuckles softly at her comments.

The young ice dancers finish with one arm out, one arm around the other in hold. Their fixed smiles illuminate the end pose and Scott gives a nod of approval, then turns to her. “They’re good, right?”

“They look so natural together,” she replies.

“Yeah, absolutely! I’ll make sure I pass on your feedback too, though,” he tells her with a laugh. “Apparently, she’s your biggest fan.” A few seconds later, as they straighten up to head out, Scott adds, “Though we both know that’s not true.”

He casually throws his arm around her shoulders as they walk together. _This feels so easy_ , she thinks to herself as they fall into stride. She turns her face to gaze at him close up, his profile so familiar and comforting to her.

“Stop at Café Lali on the way back?” he suggests, turning to look back at her.

Her eyes light up and there’s his answer.


	6. foxy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me! As ever, I hope you enjoy. Thoughts and reactions very much welcomed.

They decide to celebrate their Autumn Classic International win with dinner at Foxy. Not because everything went perfectly or because winning comes as a shock, but because it’s the first piece falling into place. And it has. The feedback is more positive than in any season she can remember – though, in part, that seems due to lower expectations as each kind word seems to be subtly laced with surprise. The nervous energy that built up over the summer had poured out into three minutes of Prince, whizzing by at speed, and as they were performing the free dance, they could feel its potential already. That’s all they could have asked for, really. So they celebrate.

He dresses up a little for the occasion, no longer confined to a ‘CANADA’ puffer coat he's had since Vancouver with his 'Home is Canada' t-shirt underneath (though she swears, if you really looked hard for it, there’d still be a maple leaf somewhere on him). Now his hair's slicked back with gel, he's wearing a button down that she’d picked out for him for some long-forgotten event, with jeans and smart trainers. Still trainers, but box-fresh ones.

When he’d arrived at her place after barely an hour apart, she’d said nothing about the fact that his choice of shirt for the evening matched the navy of her dress. He’d said nothing at all for a few seconds. 

"I think your mom reported back to mine," he says after they sit down in the restaurant, after he’s pulled out her chair for her and helped take off her coat.

They find themselves in the same corner they’ve been seated in every time they’ve come, on the end of a communal table that’s filled with animated French-speaking conversation. They go unnoticed, disappearing together into the shadowy spot, lit only dimly by tea lights. It creates a soft, warm glow around his face, a romantic haziness, like a memory that’s already fading, the sharpness of its outline starting to smudge.

There’s a teasing twinkle in his eye, like he’s smiling without smiling, and she studies it carefully before looking down at her menu, pretending to scan that instead. "You're surprised?"

"No," he concedes, "but I thought they'd be a little more subtle about it." There's a pause before he confesses, "Your mom had a few questions for me, you know. When you left us alone for a minute, I got kind of a grilling."

"What did she say?" she replies, a little too quickly. Her eyes fix on his, the rest of her face concealed by that cream sheet of hammered card that asks sea bass or pork or steak and it doesn’t matter now because her heart might truly have stopped.

And he’s so breezy about it, so laissez faire in his reply. "Just wanted to make sure I was taking care of her daughter.” He gives a shrug. It’s a curt little bounce of the shoulders. "She was asking more about how things are now, how we're getting on at Gadbois."

Absently, Tessa lets the menu drift down to the table. "What did you say?"

She can see that she’s given herself away, can see a worry line appear between Scott’s eyebrows as he looks back at her. Then his face softens; it transforms to a neutral expression. He replies, an easy humour in his tone, "I said it was mainly you taking care of me and me trying not to fuck it up."

" _Scott_ ," she scolds him. "You drive and cook and I don't do—"

"T, I don't even know where I'd be if it wasn't for you," he cuts her off in a laugh, but it's a dry one. There's no joke hidden there. "You'd be on billboards and in board meetings and making your millions, winning the world over in your own way. You can do anything." And the way he says the last word, his eyes closing on it –  _anything_  – it’s like he’s underlined it three times, makes it sound even grander than its inherent infinity. “I'm just thankful you're choosing this right now."

She’s shaking her head before she can find the words, shaking it repeatedly and urgently, because  _no, no, no_. She won’t have it. "When are you gonna realize how much I want this, here, with you?" It’s deflated.

Tessa reaches her hand across the table to where his taps the edge. He stills at her touch, his gaze dropping to where her fingers tenderly cover his before pulling them forward, to the middle, equal distance from both of them. The candle flickers beside their clasped hands.

When Scott looks up again, he gives a tight smile but can't quite get his eyes to sell it.

"You know, I, uh… I thought I lost you for a while there,” she admits, her voice dancing delicately over every syllable. She has to clear her throat after she says it.

“You didn’t lose me, Tess,” he says, almost pleadingly. He sounds childlike, his voice a little higher than it usually is and permeated by a vulnerability that just about breaks her heart. “I lost myself.” 

Tessa tightens her fingers around his.

The sounds of the restaurant are white noise in the background. There’s the cacophony of a million different conversations overlapping, the sizzle and clanging and rattling from the kitchen, the glug of wine being poured. When Scott speaks again, he’s barely audible to her over the sound of it all, but suddenly it fades away so that she can hear, as clear as anything, “You were the one who brought me back.”

For a moment, however brief, this unspoken thing between them comes into focus. It’s so close and sharp that she’s certain he’s as conscious of it as she is.  _How could he not be?_  It feels undeniable. It feels physical and tangible, as though the heat of the candle is fusing them into one like they’re made of wax.

“Can I get you some drinks?” a voice bluntly interrupts. Their hands pull away like an electric shock, searching, both of them, to hold their menus once more.

When their odd little moment passes, they ease back into silly, effortless conversation – about work, about fellow skaters, about family, about Tessa’s music taste and Scott’s lack thereof, about the highlights of their ACI win, about what they need to improve on, about everything that’s safe and familiar and theirs. Tessa finds relief in the fact that they can get so close to the precipice of a terrifying newness, stand right on its very edge, and still find their way back to this, back to solid ground.

She wonders if it’s because they both, in unison, feel themselves getting close to something and need to back away. She wonders if it’s not that at all, that it’s him sensing  _her_  fear and not wanting to scare her off. She wonders if it’s nothing at all on his part; once the moment’s over, it’s easy to think it might just have been her.

Tessa spends the rest of the evening over-thinking. She finds herself hyper-aware of every minute detail of their meal together; she starts to see them how other people might, starts to see this in a different light. It’s clear now, from the candlelight dancing in Scott’s eyes and the ambience of the room, to anyone else, this would seem like something unambiguous.

_Is it a date when you make this much effort for dinner, when you try on three different dresses in front of the mirror before committing to one? Is it a date when all you can think about is him taking said dress off? Is it a date when your feet are touching underneath the table? Is it a date when there’s a candle lit between you, when he’s pouring your wine, when he’s taking a bite out of your starter? Is it a date when he looks across the table like he can see his whole life sitting in front of him?_

_It can’t be. It can’t be because there’s a gold medal to win and everyone knows that_ this _– between partners – doesn’t work._  That’s been drilled in to her head since the first day they showed up at Arctic Edge.

After they pay up, going Dutch despite Scott skipping on dessert, he suggests walking back. It’s still mild enough out for them to get away with it. She says yes, hooking her arm around his, enthusiastic at the prospect of taking in more of the city, and doesn’t notice her shoes starting to rub until they’re halfway back.

Scott feels her pulling a little too tightly on his arm as they walk. He knows her well enough to stop and ask, “Is it your fancy new shoes?”

She nods apologetically but he immediately gestures for her to jump on his back. She resists. He insists. “I think bridal style might be more than Montreal can handle, T. Hop on. Come on, I won’t drop you.”

“I know but–”

“We gotta protect these feet!”

And then she’s on his back, her arms crossing over below his chin, legs clamped around his waist. He playfully pretends that he can’t stand again for a brief moment, and then straightens up, laughing, his hands pressing firmly to the backs of her thighs. Her coat and dress ride up high enough that she can feel his palms against her bare skin.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks him somewhere in the region of 20 times. 

“Yes! I’m used to lifting you by now, T!”

That appeases her for a while.

When Tessa eventually stops worrying, she allows herself to relax into the piggyback ride, letting her head rest against the back of his, his thick fluffy hair providing the perfect cushion. She closes her arms around his neck to lay both hands flat on his chest, pulling herself firmer against him. Every now and again, he throws her up in a bounce to adjust his grip. The interruption of their closeness draws out a giggle of relief every time.

He carries her all the way home, refusing her many offers to take a break – because it’s Scott, and he’s clearly decided he’s got something to prove.

They don’t talk about where it’ll end up. He decides to take her right to her front door, leaning forward so that she can unlock it without having to dismount. When it opens, he carries her inside and she wonders for a minute if he might just take her all the way to her bedroom. He doesn’t. He starts to loosen his hold as they move towards the centre of the open plan space, finding a no man’s land between the lounge and kitchen areas of the room.

When she slides off him and he turns to face her, Tessa catches a look in his eye that makes her heart pound. It occurs to her, once again, that if they were any other couple, this would be a date.  _It would be the best date ever. It would be the lucky night. It would be the start of something big and lasting._

There’s a brief moment where she thinks that one real date with Scott Moir might be better than any medal. There’s a brief moment where she thinks, _why not us_? It’s brief. But it lasts long enough for her to place a hand to his chest, offer a tight but genuine smile, lean up to his face and press her lips to his cheek. And she doesn’t draw away quick enough, not before his lips meet hers. She wonders if he can taste the chocolate ice cream he’d talked her into ordering with the promise of eating half. (He’d never even picked up the spoon, never had any intention.)

They don’t deepen it, daren’t touch each other, but it lingers longer than anything they can dismiss as nothing. Because this isn’t lost to a dance. It’s just them, no music.

When they separate, their eyes stay closed, hers opening first to reveal the way he’s still leaning into her. There’s something so overwhelmingly soft in looking at him like this, her eyes wide, while he’s still locked inside the moment of their kiss – the blush reddening his skin right down to his neck, the memory lifting the corners of his mouth just a little, just enough.

That’s when she knows. She knows that whatever this is, he feels it too.


	7. time machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the kindness you showed me after the last chapter. Turns out a cheeky little kiss will win you the hearts of a fandom – who knew?! :’)

Little kisses become a pattern.

They keep happening during their practices, their lips meeting tenderly inside a movement. It slips into choreography like there’s nothing they can do to stop it, like the music takes hold, the feeling of the song pulling them in.

During one of their short dance rehearsals, as the music shifts from ‘Kiss’ to ‘5 Women’, Tessa snaps her head back to pose in his arms, her ponytail almost whipping his face as they move into position. She’s waiting for him to lean his weight over her when she feels his tongue lick a line up her neck. She sighs against it, her knees buckling just a little so that she bounces there in his arms, caught straight away like he’s anticipating that reaction. Then, she springs upright to move into their blues section, like it was nothing, like it was planned, like she’s not now thinking about all the things she’d like him to do to her in a preferably slightly more private location.

They say nothing. Marie and Patch say nothing; they communicate in looks. Tessa and Scott don’t even do that when it comes to this. They glide through their choreography like nothing remarkable has happened until it happens again. And again.

There are indirect conversations, and while “knees” and “time” and “together” might be their code words on the ice, off the ice “no distractions” becomes their mantra.

Of course, it becomes a distraction. It’s a game of cat and mouse as soon as they remind themselves that there’s a self-imposed rule against it. They both know there’s _something_ there, something they aren’t allowed to explore yet, so they start to push the limit. Her ass rubs a little closer to his crotch. His hand wanders a little further up her leg. It becomes a game.

It’s Tessa who blinks first.

If she doesn’t, if she leaves it up to him, they’ll be fucking in the nearest changing room in a matter of weeks or days or hours.

“We said no relationships, no distractions. That was the promise we made each other, and we need to stand by that,” she tells him in a breathless whisper as they come apart, transitioning out of another run-through of the free dance lift that keeps tripping them up. Marie-France is metres away, scrutinizing every move they make; their expressions remain fixed in neutral so as not to give too much away. There’s a determined defiance in Tessa’s tone, even as her eyes tell a different story. She’s searching for forgiveness in his expression but Scott’s looking down at the ice beneath his feet. Quieter still, she adds, “Even if that means… something different to what we thought back then.”

“Okay Tess,” he replies with a long, heavy breath out, lifting his head to look at her. His eyelids are heavy and unblinking, and she thinks that maybe she can see too much now and that maybe she can’t breathe for just a second. But he brings his hand to stroke a comforting line down her arm.

It’s not convincing, but the gesture tells her he’s trying. The gesture is enough. They promised each other and he’d never break a promise. Especially not to her. Not now, after everything they’ve been through.

“Scott,” she says. It’s directionless. Just his name, that most familiar of words.

“You know, the promise we made each other was, ‘Just us’,” he blurts out suddenly, an impulsive brazenness taking hold of him. “We said it needed to be just us. I told you I wouldn’t fuck around, that there wouldn’t be anyone else. _That_ is the promise I was making you that day.”

She’s staring at him, her mouth just slightly ajar. The chill coming from the ice runs up through her body, leaving her frozen on the spot.

Calmly, with the abrupt arrogance of a mic drop, Scott adds, “Just so we’re clear.”

And then he leaves her with it. He skates out of reach, sweeping up Marie-France and spinning her.

“My babies, tout va bien?” Tessa hears, muffled and distant, like it’s coming from a TV screen in another room. Even the sound of her blades against the ice dulls. She’s in a trance. The only sounds are the echo of his words and the thumping of her heartbeat. She doesn’t hear Scott reply, she just knows that he does, and when their coach looks up expectantly at her, she gives a vague smile.

It’s not until Tessa’s banging on the door of his condo hours later – hours and several normal conversations and a discussion about spin transitions later – that they really acknowledge the implication of it. 

“Scott!” His front door opens and he’s standing there bewildered, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. And it’s totally fine, just dandy, that he has no shirt on, only low-hanging sweatpants. 

“Tessa!” he mimics her.

She bumps his shoulder to walk into his place, almost a replica of her own (except with none of the personal touches, unless discarded socks count), turning back to face him as she hears the door close. Scott stands with his arms akimbo, waiting for her to say something. There’s a petulance in the way he pointedly raises his eyebrows at her that pushes a button.

“You…” she starts, and doesn’t quite finish. She goes to press her index finger to his chest to gesticulate her point, but it’s just so... well, bare that she pulls her hand back down to her side.

“What?”

“You’re making it so hard.”

“I’m?” He screws his face up.

“You can’t just say something like that and expect me to—”

“To what, Tess? What?”

“To know… what to do with it. I…” She closes her eyes as a wave of tears hits her without warning and keeps them closed. It doesn’t hide that she’s crying, the dampness darkening her eyelashes and spilling onto her cheeks for him to see, but at least she doesn’t have to look him in the eye as it happens. “It’s like I can’t breathe when I’m around you sometimes.”

The next thing she knows, she’s in his arms. He wraps her up and it’s warm there, cozy and familiar. Scott moves his palm across her back, rubbing circles; his other hand brushes the hair out of her face as she settles against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, so close to her forehead that she can feel his lips moving against her skin as he says the words.

She shakes her head against him. “No,” she says, on the edge of a sob.

“I’m just scared, T.” There’s a smallness to his voice that makes every scar he’s ever left throb deep inside of her. “Scared we’ll go two years and end up right back where we were after Sochi. I’m scared I’ll wait and wait and never get to tell you how I feel.” The words seem to tumble out of his mouth before he can do a damn thing to stop them. “It’ll be too late.”

“You had two years,” is all she can think to say. She heaves in a breath, suddenly realizing that there’s nothing left in her lungs. Her breath hitches. “I waited for you for two years.”

“I—” And that’s all he offers. That’s all he’s got.

Tears fill her eyes faster than she can blink them away. She swallows, hoping to recover herself enough to speak, hoping that when she does, the words will come out.

“It’s not really real, is it? You only do this when we’re skating, when we’re…” She’s searching his eyes now, searching for denial. Because there’s nothing she wants as much as for him to shoot her hypothesis down. Her voice is calm as she speaks, not accusatory or heated, but level and accepting. “It’s just the skating.”

Tessa waits again for a reply. She wants so desperately for him to explain it away, for him to have that perfect answer, an explanation to make sense of every missed opportunity between them over their two lost years, some simple reason why she’s got it wrong, all wrong. He’s reaching for something, she can see it. She watches how his mouth opens, closes and opens again. But the words don’t come.

“It’s too much.” She pulls away from him to move her hand up to his face, to look him in the eye so that he can read her as easily as she can always read him. She wants him to know all the things she can’t bring herself to say aloud. “We can’t do this now. It’s so big and unknowable and we’ve already come so far.” 

“And you don’t trust me anymore,” he says, defeated.

Her throat strains to reply, “I _do_ trust you.”

“Not with your heart." 

Tessa considers her reply. But now he’s said it, she can’t argue. She hasn’t got the energy to dispute the point and _maybe_ , she thinks, _he’s right_. The thing he doesn’t know yet, doesn’t seem to realize, is that whether she trusts him with her heart or not, he has it anyway. If only he could be just a little more careful.

She kisses him tenderly on the cheek, her thumb brushing over the spot once her lips draw away.

“I have an idea,” she says, sniffling to regain composure. 

“Does it involve a time machine? I could really use a time machine.”

Tessa’s eyes crinkle as she smiles at him for that, and the tears balancing on her waterline sparkle in the half-light. “No. Listen. Everything you want to say, everything I’m not ready to hear, write it down. And I’ll do the same.”

“Are we gonna dramatically burn them because that feels a little much, I have to say, T—”

“No!” she admonishes him. “We’ll have two envelopes to open the moment we get home from Pyeongchang with those gold medals around our necks, okay? We’ll open them, no matter what. Even if you think we’ve missed our moment or something stupid like that, like our moment can’t wait another few months after all this time. And if you don’t think it can wait, if don’t think you’ll still want to tell me then, there’s no point in saying it now anyway.”

Scott gives a somber nod, before trying to lighten the mood. “I’m feeling a little attacked here,” he jokes.

Tessa laughs at him for that, relieved that the tension between them is dissipating already. The air is lighter again, finally breathable. Somehow, even talking about this stuff, talking about the big, heavy, important question that always comes between them, he’s got a way of making her feel like everything is A-OK.

Maybe it’ll turn out that way.

“And in the meantime?” 

“We win it all,” she says with renewed confidence. It prompts him to shake his head with a funny little grin and, for once, she can’t quite read him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like you might have some questions about Scott in this, but everything will become clear in time, I promise. I’m sorry this wasn’t an “I wrote you every day for a year!” _Notebook_ -style situation but please stick with me. To give you a tiny little tease: the next chapter will be called Latched. (Time to get the Grand Prix season started.)


	8. latched

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's sticking with me on this. I can't articulate how heartwarming and validating some of the comments have been and I hope each and every one of you enjoys where I take this story.

The week after they seal two envelopes and hide them away in the top drawer of Tessa’s nightstand, their Grand Prix season starts at Skate Canada. 

The Prince program pops and fizzes like it has every time they've performed it. “Fought a bit for the twizzles but other than that, it was good,” is Scott’s breathless assessment. They sit and watch the slow-motion replays and, as it finishes on their final embrace, she hears him tell Marie-France, “I was scared that we’d never feel that again.” Tessa smiles for the camera and blinks away a funny feeling. In no time at all, he’s joking around about how long the scores are taking – “They must just be so big. Too big to read!” – and the tightness in her chest releases.

But their second dance suffers. It's graceful enough, they hit the technical elements okay, the steps only getting heavy towards the end, but it's that ineffable connection that's lacking. 

When they'd first sat down to talk about ideas for the free dance and the story that they wanted to tell, Scott had been so quick to say, "What if it's about second chances?" that she’d stopped breathing for a second. There had been a glint in Marie's eye as she looked across to David Wilson, but Tessa barely registered it. Her eyes were fixed on Scott. 

They'd then spent weeks trying to find the music, listening to film scores and old symphonies and chart ballads non-stop to find the perfect selection. As soon as they did find it, the heart of the program came alive in their minds, the intention and the narrative of it forming naturally from the soft tinkle of the piano keys in ‘Pilgrims on a Long Journey’. The turmoil, the push and pull, the way they weave around each other until they come together. It's simple. And when it transitions into ‘Latch’, she feels like there's nothing in the world that could ever come between them. 

At High Performance Camp, they'd both embraced it: the truth that lived inside those four musical minutes. They'd been buzzing with excitement and relief after a solid short dance and after getting back to her room, she'd posted a picture of the two of them from earlier in the day: Virtue and Moir, Canada’s comeback kids. It showed them in the midst of their many interviews, with Tessa smiling and engaging with the journalist while Scott has his head down, completely lost in thought. “Great first day @SkateCanada High Performance Camp! At least I thought it was. @ScottMoir penny for your thoughts?” she had captioned it.

Six minutes later, a rare tweet from Scott: “You kiddo were amazing see you tomorrow and prepare to be Latched onto.”

She'd smiled to herself, her eyes naturally pressing closed at his sentimental reply. It was unusual for them to be apart these days, confined to their assigned rooms, and she wondered if he was missing her like she missed him. She'd considered a few responses before coming back with, "You lift my heart up when the rest of me is down". 

It had felt daring. Her heart raced as she stared at her own post on the timeline, as she watched the notification number shooting up and up. An avalanche of emojis and exclamation points. But imagining his reaction, a little sparkle in his eyes and a smile as big and bright as the sun, she couldn’t muster one little bit of regret. She could see him so clearly and, for a minute, she didn’t have to miss him. She could just revel in the promise of tomorrow.

Tessa had felt herself falling a little more in love with this free dance every time they performed it. The program and the characters and the music, and not him, definitely not him. It’s the story they’re telling, not the truth in his eyes. It makes her feel like she’s floating – ethereal and invincible.

When they’d gone to the ACI, she’d stood beside him as Scott had so vividly described the program to the press as, “the story of two people who probably have had some hard times, coming together to get through that and, you know, realizing how lucky they are to have each other.”

His words had given him away. And if they hadn’t, the way he’d avoided even a glance in her direction would have. He’d barely been able to look the interviewer in the eye.

 _The story of two people who probably have had some hard times, coming together through that_. She wonders if they still can. That had been before their confrontation. Now, it’s different. The authenticity of their storytelling has become an obstacle rather than their competitive advantage.

They shy away from it a little too much at Skate Canada. Their twilight conversation is too fresh, reality too starkly realized through their movements to enable them to fully connect with each other and the narrative that they're trying to convey. It's not awkward per se, but the capital-M "Moment" that they wax poetic about every chance they get is missing from the performance; because the moment is more than either one of them is prepared to face. It's a 0.1% difference that means everything to them. Marginal gains.

As they stand on the podium, she soaks in the atmosphere and the feeling of being back on top and together. That was the point of this whole comeback. Even if the dance didn't create the moment they crave, there’s still a shared pride between them as they’re awarded their medals and flowers. The easiness of their bond returns in these moments. Even if there are things they aren't talking about, they're still _them_. Virtue and Moir. Tessa and Scott. They're each other's best friend, even if there's a pretty sizeable elephant in the rink. They vacillate smoothly, effortlessly, in synchronicity between the deep, long-founded friendship they've established and the uncertainty of romantic feelings. But they do it all together, holding hands.

She gazes down at the bouquet she’s been given, studying the mix of red and white with a warm, fuzzy feeling stirring at last. She finds something reassuring in the fact that even when they’re off their game, they still end up here: on top. Over her shoulder, she can sense him following her gaze. She can feel that he’s watching what she’s doing, probably trying to guess what’s going through her mind.

Even with that awareness of his attention, Tessa doesn’t expect it when his hand swoops in to steal the flowers from her. He's doing it to make her smile, she's quite certain of that. It's been a long day, he can sense her energy fading and he wants to lift her mood. She looks up at him patiently, a look that's more warm than it is reproving, and then says, "Please."

He gives in.

When she looks down at the flowers again, composing herself for ‘O Canada’, all she can think is, _you lift my heart up, when the rest of me is down_.

After the victory ceremony wraps up, after they go back to Montreal, they spend more time with Marie and David to dissect the intention of every movement. They allow the aftershocks of their confrontation to pass. They rediscover their dynamic in practice. 

NHK is different. It has to be, and it is.

They’re caught up in their warm-up, skating their way through a few of their free dance steps as the other skaters move around them. Each pair is marking out their own lines across the ice, scanning the area at all times to avoid a crash.

Scott and Tessa are spinning into free space as they come out of a lift, face to face in the movement, when the Russian pair start gliding towards them, both with one leg fully extended. The way they’re positioned, it’s Tessa who takes the hit. She doesn’t have time to dodge out of the way, even as they see it coming, though Scott tries to pull her in. She catches a skate on the back of her thigh and winces at the hard, sharp sting of it, tightening their hold so that they’re flush against each other.

Scott looks ready for a fistfight when she looks up at him again, his eyes drifting from the Russians back to her. His mouth is tight, his jaw grinding. They lift up the skirt of her dress together to get a look at the mark: no bloody gash, but it’ll bruise. She whispers, “It’s okay,” to him as she reaches for his hand again, giving it a grateful squeeze, before moving to skate over to the boards, to Patrice.

Scott wants to get another look at it, reaching around her to lift her skirt again. She twists the other way so that their coach can see it as well.

“It’s really not so bad,” she assures them both, though she can’t hide her grimace. She’ll worry about how bad it actually is once they’ve got medals around their necks.

Scott gives her an accepting nod before running his hand through his hair in an attempt to calm himself down – that’s an easy read for Tessa. Teenage Scott would’ve blown up; now he focuses on her, letting her eyes alone remind him that they’ll soon be topping a podium that the other two can’t even get a foot on. They’ll rant and rage later about the Russian pair who couldn’t look out. For now, he accepts her assurances that she really is okay, that it’s just a bruise, and if he gazes at her even more lovingly in the performance, she’ll put that down to competitiveness. If he burrows deeper into her chest at the end, if he smiles brighter after they stand up, she’ll blame it on the heat of the moment, the adrenaline, the feeling that their collision could’ve been so much worse.

They win. Of course they do. They stand on the top of the podium, with the French on their right and the Italians on their left.

It’s one of those nights where they feel so unspeakably solid, a team. The cord that ties them together has tightened even more somehow, and it’s like there’s nothing between them. Nothing can come between them. It’s in the firmness of a handhold, her pinky slipping between his index and middle fingers like a key in a lock. It’s in the hug, _their hug_ , that instantaneous syncing of souls. It’s in the side-eye glances of reassurance as they wait for interview translations, relieved by the comfort of a familiar face as foreign words fly over both their heads.

He sits with her afterwards as their team doctor takes a look at the graze. There have been several insistent rounds of “It’s really nothing!” but she concedes that those words might be more convincing for everyone else if they came from a medical professional.

Tessa’s lying across the physio table, barely awake now, and Scott’s pulled up a chair at the head of it. She has her face rested against her forearm, turned towards him. He looks as drained as she feels.

“Nothing serious but it’ll hurt in the morning,” is the verdict.

Scott winces at the dark purple bruise that’s bloomed. She can see the tightness in his face, the restlessness that he’s trying to suppress for her sake.

He kisses the back of her shoulder and the softness of this touch is a balm. His face lingers close, then he drops his forehead to rest on the table next to her – exhausted, relieved, worried. She twists a little more to place her hand delicately on his cheek.

“We won today. I don’t know if you noticed.”

She feels his face move to a smile.

“Not like a bruise is gonna stop Olympic champion, Tessa Virtue.”

She laughs a gentle laugh. “You’re damn right.”

“You were spectacular tonight, T.” Scott lifts his head up as he says it, lethargy manifesting in the slight slurring of the words.

She groans a little. “I was rushed. I came out of one of the lifts too heavily. And the timings might’ve been a little off…”

“Tess.”

She stills. The way he looks at her makes her feel dizzy. And the way her name sounds in his mouth – that’s something else, something she’s only just put away in a drawer.

“That’s for tomorrow. Tonight, you were _incredible_.” Scott closes his eyes as he says it, like he’s dreaming up a replay in his mind. There’s warmth in his smile that tells her more, but for now she replies a quiet, terse, “Okay.”

“The connection was there. It felt good,” he adds.

 _He felt it too_. “It felt better than it has all season.”

Scott bows his head again to rest it on the table beside her, close enough to her face that she feels his hair tickle her skin. Her hands move to it, sweeping tenderly through the dark brown mop that he’s been growing out for perhaps a little too long now. Her arm stays curled around him like that until they’re interrupted by a soft knock. Patrice.

“Are you okay?” he asks, eyes rallying between the pair of them.

They glance at each other first, before answering in unison: “Yes.” It’s soft but certain.

Smiling at the two of them and the intimacy they’re making no effort to hide, Patrice says, “You did notice you won tonight?”

Scott and Tessa look at each other and laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed a little Latch love! Please let me know your thoughts, as always, and thank you again for reading.


	9. mes chéris

Black ink marks out the mystic truth between them across pages that are folded once, twice, three times and hidden in envelopes that remain untouched. She thinks about this an inestimable number of times per day. It’s a thought that persists most of all on the nights when she’s tucked up under the covers alone, with the evidence of that night, of a conversation they didn’t quite have, just inches away. Sometimes she even takes out the pair of envelopes, runs her fingers along their edges and toys absently with the twine that ties them together. Then she’ll put them both back, for all the sensible reasons that prompted her to suggest the idea in the first place: _not now, not yet, not before the Olympics_.

After the emotional rollercoaster of NHK, they revert to old habits quickly: his palm against the small of her back, warm hands wrapping around her waist, her fingers reaching slowly for his.

Even the tension of what remains unsaid – or at least postponed – doesn’t dampen the irrepressible joy of being around Scott all day. The best version of Scott. The driven, motivated, hard-working, fun-loving Scott that landed her in the middle of this clusterfuck of feelings in the first place.

Sometimes almost having something is enough; _this could be enough_. It’s not so full of longing, but having. Having almost everything she could ever want and finding that it’s better than she’d ever imagined. Because even if they’re not _together_ together, there’s an ease between them that surpasses everything they’ve had before this. No insecurity, no secrets, no jealousy, no stupid games. It’s love and connection and relaxed, everyday fun.

And maybe in the end, they’ll get to have it all. She’ll be ready for the risk one day; no risk, no reward. It’s just two letters.

(But then, she thinks, so is _no_.)

When they get to Marseille for the Grand Prix Final, Scott’s on a full charm offensive like nothing she’s ever seen. He teases her with the promise of a surprise and, though she’s not too big on surprises in general, his solid track record earns him the benefit of the doubt. She smiles a tight-lipped smile and waits for his big reveal, enduring a few hours of Scott’s cryptic hints and silly riddles, until eventually he announces that he’s planned for them to do an open-top bus tour of the town.

“It’s a hop on, hop off deal. We can see the basilica and the port and,” he trails off, his voice barely audible as he adds, “I thought you’d like it.”

Scott gives a sweet, self-effacing shrug as she watches him question his whole big plan. Sure, it’s going to be a little gauche, a little touristy, and completely freezing because it’s December, but it’s also the perfect surprise. They have barely any time to take in the sights and yet it’s as though he’s packaged it all up for her, just to fit their short window of opportunity.

“I _do_ like it,” is her coy response. She smiles just enough to show her gratitude, concealing just enough to maintain her composure.

Tessa doesn’t remark on his sudden, unprecedented enthusiasm for sightseeing. She lets it play out, lets him make up funny stories about historic monuments and celebrated architecture and hidden passageways. She chooses not to question the frequency with which ghosts seem to come up in these “very accurate, thank you very much” little factoids he shares. She slips her arm through his, with her hand settled inside the bend of his elbow as they walk in step together, listens to him speak some _very_  questionable French to unsuspecting locals, and allows herself to live in the pretence of some romantic mini break for a few hours.

At her suggestion, they end up walking towards the shops after their tour of the town. The streets are sparkling. There are Christmas lights draped across the narrow straight, twinkling lines of blue and warm white bauble shapes hanging above from one side to the other. There are festive displays lighting up every storefront with all the traditional flourishes. They can hear choir music coming from somewhere – a store or a street performer or someone’s home, perhaps. As they pass a quaint little boutique bakery, there’s such a strong scent of ginger, she can almost taste it on her tongue. It tastes like Christmas.

Having captured a few hundred snapshots of their day, Tessa’s got her phone firmly clutched in her hand – always ready for the next one. She can’t resist unlocking it, opening up the camera app and holding it up to the festive scene that surrounds them. Instead of taking a picture of the lights and the decorations, though, she turns to catch Scott off-guard. Reacting quickly, as though a little part of him knew it was coming, he pulls a goofy face just for her.

She looks down at her screen to laugh at him all over again. His eyes are extra wide, eyebrows up to his hairline, with a exaggerated, fake grin that looks more like a grimace. When her eyes drift back up to roll her eyes at him, she notices his jaw tighten in a yawn. Scott turns his head trying to hide it, but she can see by the way he rolls his shoulders that he’s getting a little restless.

“You wanna head back to the hotel? Get some rest?” she asks, an air of faux nonchalance, as she slips her phone back into her coat pocket.

“You get all your pictures?”

Tessa breaks their eye contact to study the ground, her foot rolling a stone. “I think I got it on the last one.”

They walk a little quicker as they head back to the hotel together. She pulls her winter coat even tighter around her, hugging herself, with her hands rubbing up and down her arms. “It’s cold,” she says, more to herself than to him.

Of course, he reaches his arm out and pulls her in tight. “Get in here,” he says, folding her into his side.

“Thank you for coming out with me today,” Tessa says, quiet and careful with every word of it.

The reply is breezy and instantaneous: “Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else, kiddo.”

She turns to really look at him, her cheek settling against his shoulder. Her reply is tight and self-conscious, a desperately curious, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says back, his eyes fixed on their path ahead. It sounds so certain, as though he might as well have replied, “ _Duh_.” Of course. It’s moments like this where everything complicated about this thing between them pales into the background.

A few days later, they win the Grand Prix Final.

It comes after a false start, but they win nevertheless. And maybe that’s enough for them, she thinks. It equates to two season’s bests, a plan on track, and rice added to the bucket. Best of all, though, it completes the set. 19 years and finally they have a Grand Prix Final title to their names. It was the only thing left – and they’ve done it, at last. Maybe that’s enough comeback success to take a little risk. Or a big one.

It isn’t.

Of course it isn’t. It’s always been about Pyeongchang. That had been Scott’s point of reference from that very first conversation. They wanted that gold medal. So, still nothing changes.

They hold off their celebrations until Montreal, when they have the band back together and Patch is there. It’s commemorated with a low-key dinner at the Lauzon-Dubreil household, home-cooked cassoulet – a welcome break from their restrictive meal plans.

Billie-Rose has already been sent to bed early, allowing Tessa and Scott time alone with coaches that feel more like family. It's not coaching time, though; it’s informal and effortless. As Patch and Marie fuss over them, insisting they sit down and relax every time either one of them tries to assist, that familial feeling is inevitable. It’s not unlike the one she has every time she visits the Moirs’ home, as Joe insists on cooking her favourite recipe and Alma tells her all about the local skaters. Tessa and Scott sit side by side, with Patch and Marie directly opposite.

Predictably, they end up talking shop. Training and competition permeates every thought. It’s midway through their season. The two-year plan now only has 14 months left in it. But it’s positive work talk, at least. Until it’s a few glasses of wine later and it’s not work talk at all. Until Scott’s prying, and the questions start to feel a little too personal. He looks at Tessa, and then he looks at Marie and Patch sitting opposite them.

“Did you know straight away, that you would… end up here, together?”

Tessa’s wondering how on earth they’ve got onto the topic as Marie-France cheerfully indulges him: “Oh no, I always had a little crush. Little crush on the nice, tall man. But you don’t know how it will go.” Her hand brushes Patrice’s shoulder beside her. “I can’t imagine my life with anyone else now, of course. He’s so level." Her hands draw out a line. "It’s very important for me.”

“You’re opposites in temperament,” Tessa notes, hiding her smile with a sip from her glass.

“We are,” Marie says joyfully as Patch simply raises his eyebrows. There’s modesty in his expression, but as he turns his head to look at his wife, there’s no doubting his love.

A moment of silence follows, a moment where they’re looking at each other and it feels too intimate to interrupt. It should be uncomfortable, and yet, as Tessa and Scott’s gazes turn towards each other, a shared appreciation of what they have here, with these mentors and friends, passes between them. _And we are too_ , Tessa thinks to herself. Scott gives a tight smile before turning back to their coaches and asking, quickly, too quick for anyone to intervene, “When did you know it was worth the risk?”

“Well, when we fell in love,” Marie replies, “there wasn’t so much history as with..." She pauses awkwardly, closing her eyes to consider how to pivot. “ _Other_ skaters.”

Patch fixes Tessa with a stare and she feels her cheeks flush with red. A wry grin pulls at his lips. His wife carries on, oblivious (or pretending to be): “But we just knew. The moment came and we looked at each other, and I knew it wasn’t something that I would get over.”

“Everyone else knew it was inevitable,” Patch chimes in, a serene smile ready for when Marie glances over to him.

“Yes, my mother just laughed when we told her.”

It seems as though Marie is going to continue, but she stops herself. Tessa wonders what remark she had thought better of. In the end, she considers if, perhaps, it wasn’t so far from what she ends up saying: “Some things are inevitable. Meant to be.” There’s a drawn out silence again, another one gathering tension with each passing second, before she blithely adds, “Like with you two!”

Tessa tries not to flinch. She sees Patch’s eyes go wide as he looks down at the table. She can feel Scott’s gaze on her but daren’t look in that direction.

Thankfully, Marie-France elaborates quickly. There’s no pause, though the half-second still drags on for a lifetime, before she explains: “When we are working, it really just feels like the four of us were meant to do this, yes? We always felt so proud of you and wanted so much for you when you were little babies, and now you’re here with us!”

She finishes her speech by rising from her seat to take everyone’s empty plates into the kitchen. There’s a skip in her step as she walks out, like perhaps she knows what she’s doing, like perhaps she’s had one too many glasses of that merlot, like perhaps she’s relishing the informality of the evening a little too much.

While she’s gone, the other three sit in silence. There’s the deafening sound of thoughts whirring through each of their minds, but no one says a word. Not until featherlight footsteps interrupt. Dressed in bright pink pyjamas, with her hair fluffed up in a ponytail on the top of her head, the littlest member of their Gadbois family appears in the doorway before making a beeline for Scott.

Billie-Rose climbs up into his lap, despite her father’s half-hearted protest from across the table. She's either too sleepy or too determined to take notice, but she presses her knees into Scott's lap to find purchase before turning to settle in her seat on his legs. For his part, Scott says nothing; he looks down with a warm, resigned smile and gives her head a little pat once she's positioned herself comfortably there. Every now and again, he lifts his legs up and down to bounce her, drawing out a burst of drowsy laughter every time. 

When Marie-France returns, her eyes roll towards Patrice. It's not irritation, it's the inevitability of it. A look between them like, _I told you this would happen_. Tessa imagines some earlier conversation, an intimate exchange between husband and wife about whether Billie would be allowed to have dinner with them, her dad arguing in favour of the bedtime routine as her mom assures him that she'll never stay away. 

There's no chastising. 

When Tessa absently places her hand on the edge of the table, Billie reaches out to touch the ring that's on her middle finger. She twists it around. Tessa watches it move, watches the small index finger turn it and turn it and turn it. Something about the gesture makes her feel connected to Scott. He's not touching her, he's not even looking at her, but the little girl in his lap creates a tether between them that she can feel pulling. 

It's not long after that that Scott starts drifting off. His head hangs back limply against the back of the dining chair. In his arms, Billie's much the same. She's resting against him, her eyes closed in a contented deep sleep. 

“Mes chéris," Marie-France says warmly.

Patch and Tessa laugh with each other. 

"I sense that he is struggling," Marie says, a little conspiratorially, her eyes checking Scott as she says it. He's unresponsive. 

“To stay awake?" Tessa replies.  

“With his emotions,” she clarifies. “He’s struggling with what’s between you two.”

Tessa is still for a moment, considering this assertion, before conceding with a nod. Even though Patrice stays quiet, she can tell he agrees.

“So much feeling. With the other pairs, we try to get them to bond. Often the closeness can be reinforced by time apart, too. Breathing room. Being around each other so much can often create conflicts, yes, and when we talk to these teams, we always encourage enough space to cement that bond you create on the ice,” Marie-France explains, her animated gestures expressing as much as her words. When she mentions _that bond_ , her fist clenches tightly in mid-air before releasing.

She leans in a little closer to Patrice as she continues: “It’s different with you. You just want to be around each other always, you’re better if you are. Your strength lies in one another.”

“We have… We did talk about it,” Tessa admits, feeling a suddenly overwhelming urge to pour out her heart to Marie and Patch as their compassion radiates across the table. “We promised each other, at the start of this comeback, that we wouldn’t date anyone.”

“He can’t be with you, he can’t be with anyone else either?” Marie pauses for a moment and says, “You can’t just put your feelings on a shelf and leave them there until you’re ready to face them. Doesn’t work. I know from experience.”

“I just,” Tessa breathes in a deep breath, “don’t think I’m ready.”

“I think we don’t always have control over these things. And how does anyone ever know they’re ready?” There’s delicate care in her words, her eyes searching Tessa’s to offer assurance. “We just… take a leap.”

“He seems so sure in the moment and I’m just—“

“You know, when you’re not thinking about it so much, you seem sure too. To the outside perspective.” Marie shrugs. “Maybe he is the same as you.”

“If I lost him,” and the thought hangs there, heavy and loaded, before she continues, “it would be… _everything_.”

“If you lost him? Why would you lose him?”

In her periphery, Tessa senses movement from Scott’s side but turns to find that he still has his eyes closed. He’s just the same as he was, drawing in long, shallow breaths, his mouth puffing ever so slightly to mark each one.

She turns back to Marie and Patch, picking up where she left off.

“If it didn’t work or—“

“Tessa.”

“If it blew up between now and Pyeongchang, it would… break him. Sochi almost did. If we don’t get the gold…” Tessa scrunches her nose as she looks at Scott asleep beside her, with Billie-Rose resting against him. He looks vulnerable now, soft and benevolent and just how she remembers him being on the nights he'd curled up in bed with her. “I don’t want to ever see him like he was, how things were after last time. It took so long to get us to this point and now we just need to focus, and enjoy everything we _do_ have. No relationships, no distractions.”

Measured in every word, with a softness in his voice that Tessa’s never heard before, Patrice replies: “Have you considered that not being together might be a bigger distraction?”

Marie turns her head from Patch to Tessa and says, “It's okay to let yourselves be happy. No one thinks any less of you. Or they do and you’re too wrapped up in each other to give a shit, maybe,” she adds with a shrug. “C'est comme ça.”

“Yeah,” Tessa mumbles softly. “You make it sound so easy.” 

“I never said it was easy!” There's a bright, knowing grin on Marie's face, like maybe she's seen into the future and maybe everything's going to be okay. “But worth it? Yes.”


	10. white christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say again how much it means to read such thoughtful, lovely comments from people. Thank you to anyone who’s taken the time. I can’t tell you how motivating it is. I’m just so happy that people are reading this and I hope you stick around and enjoy what I have for you…

They go home for a few days at Christmas. He’s in Ilderton, she’s in London. It’s the farthest they’ve been apart for months and she can feel every mile of it.

It never used to feel like this. She’s always missed him when they’re separated – the way he makes her laugh, the way his touch makes her skin tingle, the way one glance could make her feel beautiful and seen and loved – but it never used to feel quite like this. It’s never felt so inescapable before, like a weight bearing down on her chest. That lightness she feels whenever she’s with him, the giddy feeling of walking on air, has been replaced by its cruel opposite.

Every time her lock screen lights up, she glances down immediately just hoping to see his name: her two favorite words. Even if it’s barely anything – a “Hi” or a cute picture of his nieces and nephews or a work question – it’s everything to her.

Those messages don’t make her miss him less. They don’t numb the ache. They fill her with the urge to run out to her car, hit the gas and not stop until she’s pulling up in his driveway. This fantasy plays out in her mind a thousand times. In her daydreams, there’s mistletoe hanging over the doorway when she gets there. She pictures it: he’ll open the dark wood door decorated with the same berry and pinecone wreath as every other year, and she won’t say a word. She’ll shift all of her weight onto her tiptoes just to lean up and kiss him full on the mouth. He’ll smile brightly, his eyes sparkling like fairy lights, and invite her inside, saying nothing but, “I’m so happy you’re here.”

In reality, she’s sat on the edge of her bed with one leg folded beneath her and one leg dangling off the side, with Jordan stretched out across the sheets in front of her. They’ve been in Tessa’s bedroom a while, hiding out together from the rest of the family. They’re catching up on the details of Jordan’s life in Toronto and checking they didn’t buy their brothers the same present again like last year and saying repeatedly, “We should probably head back to mom’s." 

They’re interrupted by the marimba tone of Tessa’s cell.

It’s Scott. The picture she took of him in Marseille flashes up on the screen, and she picks up immediately. There’s not even time enough for her to feign casual disregard and when she looks up again, already with the phone pressed to her ear, Jordan’s smirking at her.

“Hey stranger,” he says, his voice chirpy and warm.

“Hey,” Tessa replies, drawing out the syllable with a soft lilt. “What’s up?”

“So, the whole family is going to the rink later and I’ve been put under _ve-ry_ strict instructions to invite you along,” he explains merrily. “I know you probably have a million things going on and it’s totally fine if you say no—“

“No, Scott, it’s okay. That sounds…” She hesitates, searching for the right word. Something a little less eager than her tone. “…Nice. What time?”

“A couple hours?” he says, as though asking the question to someone in the room with him at the same time as answering her.

“Let me check in with my mom but I think I can make it.” Tessa looks up at Jordan for a gesture of approval and earns a nod, ignoring the accompanying grin that her sister wears as she watches their exchange play out. “We were just gonna watch a film, I think, but the kids don’t wanna sit still and Jordan and I are hiding out at my place right now, pretending to pick up more gifts so… it works out.”

“I should warn you that I think they want us to do a routine or something, like we’re performing monkeys! I’m trying to talk Danny down but he’s already—“

At the mention of his name, she hears Danny yell out, “Do you need me to talk to Big Hands?”

“ _Nooooo_ , no, thanks!” It gets a little muffled as she listens to an indistinguishable mix of voices coming from the other end of the line as Scott mumbles. It sounds as though he’s moving from one room to another. She hears a door close and then silence. Scott picks up where he left off: “He’s already, uh, advertising a show, I think.”

“I’ll see you soon then,” she says, unable to suppress her bashfulness even under the glare of her older sister.

They hang up after a brief back and forth of goodbyes.

“Well. That was… embarrassing to watch,” Jordan says as soon as Tessa puts the phone down, rolling her eyes a little and earning the same in return.

“We haven’t spoken in a few days!”

“Oh, so it wasn’t Scott you were cooing on the phone to this morning?”

Tessa looks away, glancing down at the text he’s already followed up with: “Everyone is SO excited to see you later. Thanks T. You’re the best!” She can’t help the glowing smile that appears as she reads it, just like her sister can’t help but ruin the moment.

“You’re so screwed,” Jordan says, a rough laugh trailing her words as she shakes her head.

There’s no point lying to her. Not when she’s known them both as long as she has. Tessa replies in a sort of wince-groan: “Tell me about it.”

“What’s up with you guys now?”

She lets out an exaggerated sigh before shifting position to lay down next to her sister, parallel across the width of the bed. Her voice is soft, her cadence steady and circumspect as she replies, “I’d love to know. This whole comeback has just been the most intense – _wonderful_ , but intense – experience. I don’t know what to do when he looks at me like he does.”

“Kiss him!”

“Jordan,” she starts, turning to look her sister in the eye, “if I kissed him every time he gave me that look, we’d never get any work done.”

“Well, how’s that for a moment of honesty, T? Wow.”

Tessa buries her face in the comforter. A heavy silence falls between them as Jordan waits patiently for her head to lift again. Eventually, she comes up for air.

“Have you ever thought that maybe you two were just meant to end up together? Maybe that’s what the past 20 years have been about?”

“No, I’ve literally never thought about it,” Tessa replies, her voice dripping with sarcasm as her sister reaches around to lightly hurl one of the decorative cushions directly at her face.

“You’re too cautious for your own good sometimes.”

Tessa looks away, her mind wandering to the letter that’s sitting in that closed drawer in her bedroom in Montreal. She’s thinking about the look on his face when she’d come up with that stupid idea. She’s remembering the way he’d taken the pen and paper from her and so decisively written out his message.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Jordan asks, bursting the bubble of that particular memory. Her manner isn’t eager or prying anymore, but a display of gentle concern.

Tessa confides in her about the letters. She finds it a relief to tell someone. She explains that peculiar, unsteady evening, explains every detail of it that she can bear to speak aloud as Jordan lays a comforting hand over her own. 

“I got out a piece of paper. Oh, it was that stationery you bought me for my birthday last year—”

“You’re welcome.”

“—and he went straight over to the table, wrote a couple of lines. Barely anything. I don’t know what. I hadn’t even figured out what to write and it was my idea in the first place.”

There’s a half-smile on Jordan’s face at that. “Maybe because it’s pretty simple for him, Tessa.”

“But I keep thinking about when you get your letter for college.” Tessa moves to prop herself up on one side, her weight resting on her elbow. “Do you know what I mean? When you get the letter, it’s bad. The short, single-page letter. You want the big, thick welcome pack." 

“Your relationship isn't a... college application!” Jordan bursts out laughing as Tessa waits for her to compose herself. She just carries on: “He probably wrote that he’s in love with you. That doesn’t take too many words. And honestly you can usually read his face even if you can’t read his mind. Can’t you tell?”

“I think I can, but I can’t seem to trust myself that it’s real.”

Jordan’s eyebrows knit together as Tessa carries on.

“He does this.” She sighs. “He makes me feel like he wants to be together, really be together, but then it just… doesn’t happen. He doesn’t mean to do it but the whole thing is a conversation for after the Olympics. I just…” She struggles to articulate herself and her eyes close in search of the right words. “I didn’t want him to say anything he didn’t mean – impulsively.”

“So, you’re telling me that out there in the world, there exists a letter detailing how Scott Moir feels about Tessa Virtue and you _could_ read it, but you haven’t?”

Tessa gives an almost imperceptible nod, her eyes locked with Jordan’s. They’re both studying each other’s expressions in that open, intimate way that passes only between sisters. She doesn’t need Jordan to tell her what she’s thinking; she doesn’t need to hear that this whole thing is ridiculous. And Jordan seems to know that. She pulls her baby sister towards her and wraps her up in a hug, warm enough that all of her worries melt away for a brief moment.

They don’t wait long before they set off for Ilderton. Kate offers no argument as her daughters make their excuses; she just raises her eyebrows and gives a tight smile.

When they arrive at the rink, everyone’s already there.

As soon as she walks in, her gaze lands on Scott automatically; the entire room blurs out of focus except for him. He’s got Danny in a headlock, because apparently some things never change, though it doesn’t take two seconds before he’s letting his brother loose again. She watches him laughing that full body laugh where he throws his head back, with his eyes closed and his mouth wide. Scott then skates away and picks up his niece in a single smooth motion, sweeping her up like a paper airplane and flying her around above his head, before sending her gliding into her patient mother’s arms.

“Tessa!” Charlie calls across to her as soon as she steps onto the ice, turning Scott’s head in a snap.

He instantly starts skating towards her in a theatrical, arms-wide gallop that plays out in slow motion. It's clearly for the entertainment of everyone around them, but that doesn't stop her from blushing as he approaches. There's an open-mouthed smile greeting her as he lifts her up in a spin. "You came!"

She laughs it off. "How much coffee have you had today?" 

"I'm just running on love, baby," he replies, loud and ridiculous, earning an eye-roll as she tries to ignore the scrutiny of Jordan’s gaze on her, on them. As well as his entire family, of course.

Grabbing her hand, Scott pulls her along beside him as they skate further out to the centre. She gets a big bear hug from each of his brothers before embracing Alma, Carol, Joe and Paul. On the car ride over, she’d started to worry that it might feel like she was imposing; now, it feels like this is where she belongs. When she turns back to check on her sister, Jordan’s already settled in deep conversation with Scott’s cousins. 

For a while, Tessa and Scott just circle the rink. They play with the little ones, helping Scott’s niece pretend to do the goose lift (with Tessa lifting her up as Scott squats into position) or showing them silly tricks. They talk and laugh together, effortlessly moving in time side by side. They forget all about competition and work and everything that awaits them back at Gadbois.

It’s about a half hour before the others start to peel off and the Christmas music stops, and suddenly they realize that they’re being set up. 

"Shall we dance?" he says, offering his hand. They obediently skate to the centre of the ice to position themselves for the opening bars of 'Pilgrims on a Long Journey'. Right before they start, Tessa spots Scott poking his tongue out at his niece as she hangs over the boards to get a good view. 

And then they dance. They dance well. _Really_ well. There's clarity of movement through all of the technical elements, the kind of excellence they've been striving for all this time, and Tessa smiles to herself because of course this would peak now, in this perfect moment on Christmas Eve in front of only family. Perhaps it isn’t perfection, perhaps it even excellence, but it feels that way as they glide around this old, familiar rink together, right in the spot where it all began.

At the end, as they kneel on the ice and wait for the smattering of applause to die down, instead of getting up with Tessa, Scott dramatically collapses onto the ice in a heap. She can’t stop herself from giggling, the sound of her laughter girlish and goofy and entirely _his_. It’s matched with the kids’ belly laughs as they skate to his rescue.

The music goes back to what it was before: a sequence of Christmas songs.

As people make their way back onto the ice, Tessa and Scott skate around together like everyone else. With the eyes of their families no longer on them – everyone now lost in their own world, nieces and nephews gliding around them, couples pairing off – they relax with each other again. They look like any other kids out on a date at an ice rink for just a moment.

It’s not long before ‘White Christmas’ – the Otis Redding version, her favourite – comes on and they fall into a waltz. That is, until the gap between them in the dance hold starts to disappear and it becomes nothing more than a gentle sway, a funny little excuse for something like a hug.

“Do you think they know they’re in love?” she hears in a whisper. Cara, to Jordan.

Tessa doesn’t move and she doesn’t feel him react. She just rests her head against the soft padding of his jacket, cozying into him as if to answer Cara's question: _we know_. They’re pressed against each other, like teenagers slow dancing at prom, barely moving at all. There’s quiet between them, a stillness that ignores all of the chaos surrounding them.

“Tessa?” he says, quiet and serious.

“Yeah?”

“You’ll never lose me.” He pauses, swallowing. His heart is beating hard enough that she can feel it through the layers between them. “Not if nothing ever happens between us. Not if we get together and break up. Not if we don't medal at the Olympics. Not if we stop skating tomorrow. You will never lose me. We will _never_ lose this. I love you unconditionally and always. I’m sorry that I ever made you doubt it.”

Trying to lighten the mood, he adds: “I guess what I’m saying is, if you accidentally kill someone, I’m the person you call to help you bury the body. Got that?”

She can barely speak for the tightness in her throat, but a croaky, whispered, “Yes” just about escapes. She’s nodding against him. The friction of her toque rubbing against his puffer jacket creates a quiet, little squeak as they press tightly, as tight as possible, into one another’s embrace. Her arms move to cross around his neck, closing in on him with a protective firmness. She buries her face in the crook of his neck as his palm lies flat on her back to steady them both. 

This hug is nothing like their pre-skate routine. 

It's not calming; it doesn't synchronise their breathing, their heartbeats, their thoughts. It's rough and urgent and tighter than any embrace they've ever shared on or off the ice. Tessa is squeezing him as close as she can, as though squeezing the stuffing out of his coat is going to show him how she feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas in May anyone? 
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. I just wanted to leave a little warning to say that I’m off to a festival this weekend (which will inevitably involve me crying over ‘Latch’ and 'Shape of You’ in the middle of a field, oops), so there’ll be a longer wait for chapter 11. It’s coming, though! I really hope you stick with me for more. (Excuse my continued paranoia that you’ll all abandon ship at any moment but I’ve never had this many people reading my stuff before and it's mad!)


	11. on bended knee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so neurotic and you're all so kind and patient, thank you. Thank you for all the kind words that were left on my last chapter. I really hope you enjoy. And yes, we absolutely aren't done with Latch yet because the truth is I will never be over it.

Coming back from Christmas at home is as challenging as ever, despite their sustained focus during the break. They’re excited to be back, to be together and hand in hand, but nevertheless, the practices lag. The run-throughs, particularly of the free dance, start to feel longer and longer. Tessa can feel that Scott, in particular, is fading as they head into the final minute. He always has the strength for the lifts, his attention laser-focused when it comes to holding her up, but it’s the transitional steps that can get scrappy.

The thing is, when it gets like this, when they hit that wall, they’ve got a secret weapon in their arsenal to pull them through: they skate for each other.

Since the beginning of their comeback journey, Tessa has relished every single day with Scott. She’s woken up willing his arrival, even if it’s several hours before her natural wake-up time, and she’s drifted to sleep dreaming of tomorrow. But now it’s different. She uses him, the thought of the two of them together, as her alarm. Her mind pulls her into consciousness with the ringing thought of _Scott, Scott, Scott, Scott, Scott_.

That’s how she gets up before sunrise every morning. That’s how she wills herself through the routines. That’s how she finds the depth of emotion even as they fine-tune the details of the dances, perfecting every little note from the Grand Prix Final. That’s how they get to Nationals in the best shape of their lives. That’s how they write the next chapter of their fairytale.

Nationals is finally, finally the feeling that they'd flirted with at every other competition fully realized. It's a moment. And when they finish, she doesn't want it to end. The cheers are deafening because there's no place like home, and, as her eyes close in that final pose, she soaks up the feeling. The feeling of an entire arena brought to its feet, the warmth and tenderness of his arms around her, the satisfying burn of aching muscles. It's all over. 

For a moment, just a moment, she’s lost inside this. She can feel that he is too. It’s not the same as every other competition; it’s its own beautiful thing.

When they fold themselves into position at the end of the free dance, it feels like yin and yang forming a perfect circle; they fit together. It’s private and intimate, and utterly impenetrable. His urgent breaths hit her chest and his hair tickles her face. She can feel his hand pressed around her neck, holding her there as she basks in the heaven of his embrace. Every inch of her body that’s touching him feels hypersensitive; the rest is dust.

It’s only when he pulls away that she can fully take in the crowd. The fans rise before she does. She gives a joyful little skip as she finds her feet, before immediately looking down at her partner, her hands rested on his shoulders for support. And there he is. Her support.

He looks up at her like she hung the moon. It makes her feel like maybe she did.

There’s awe in his eyes. It’s new and stirring, something grander than any look he’s ever had for her before – and that’s no mean feat. Then there’s something familiar behind it, something she recognizes from herself: the kind of love she’s been counting on, the kind of love she has for him. It’s there, rich and abundant and pouring from the very seams of him.

He stays down on bended knee longer than he needs to, longer than he ever has before. His hands stay glued to her waist, watching the world cheer as though only for her and her alone.

She laughs modestly, waiting for the hug that’ll remind her she’s never alone out here. He puts his head to her stomach and she hopes he can’t somehow feel the butterflies as he does it, hopes he doesn’t overthink the involuntary way she leans into him, like she wants to kneel back down with him and stay inside their little bubble.

Tessa’s laughing to stop from crying when he straightens up to hold her.

She watches him celebrate with a fist pump before the bows, and that’s when she knows that this feeling, however indefinable it may be, flows through him too. She knows it’s good.

As they sit in the kiss and cry and Marie-France starts to tell them how special this is, Scott replies, "It’s special for us that we get to give you your first coaching... Canadian title," and Tessa thinks it might be the sweetest thing in the world. For him, Nationals is everything; no one wears a maple leaf more proudly. “Representing Canada, Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir” might be his favourite sentence in the whole world. So this, reclaiming the Canadian title, means the world. She doesn’t need him to say it.

He squeezes her knee gratefully – once, twice, again, and again.

“It felt like it went by fast, which I think we finally deserve because every single free dance since Christmas has been an eternity,” he starts to say, breathless and excited. When the initial relief fades, he centres on Tessa once again, with his hand patting her knee: “You’ve gotta be proud of yourself. I’m proud of you. I’m so proud of you.” She never gets tired of hearing it.

After the scores are given and the hugs are shared, as everyone pulls away, he draws Tessa back to him. His fingers curl around her neck as his face moves close to kiss the apple of her cheek. The world disappears again at his touch before they move against each other, chins resting on one another’s shoulder in a well-worn embrace.

“That felt special,” she says afterwards, once they’re hidden from crowds and cameras. It’s simple but she’s counting on him to understand her full meaning, she’s counting on him to hear, _this is everything I dreamed it would be_. All of the truths she can’t quite speak, for fear of what else would rush from her lips.

When they’re reunited with their families, Danny is ready with a big, warm hug for his brother. Then her heart stops. She hears him say, chuckling over the words, “I thought you were gonna propose for a second there, Scotty!”

There’s a pause before Scott plays it off, scrunching his face. “Oh my god, no, can you imagine? No, Tess’d kill me!” he replies with a dismissive scoff, shooting her a cautious glance.

It’s quite possibly the most half-hearted denial she’s ever heard.

With the eyes of Kate, Alma, Joe, Jordan and Charlie on her, Tessa feels all the blood in her body rush to her cheeks. She tries to play it as coolly as Scott has, rolling her eyes as she receives her own bear hug from the eldest of the Moir brothers, however much she might want to wring his neck in this very moment.

“Well done, Tess. I know he’s all right out there on the ice but I think it’s good you said no,” he carries on, ignoring the way they’re both shaking their heads in time with one another. “You two haven’t known each other long enough. Don’t wanna be rushing into anything, eh?”

“Danny!” Scott warns, and the easiness in his voice has let up to reveal a little genuine irritation. Of course, it bounces right off his brother. Danny’s like Teflon; nothing sticks to him.

“I’m so proud of you both,” Alma cuts in, in an effort to divert the conversation. She’s got a hand rested on Scott’s back as she looks warmly at Tessa. “The arena was so loud tonight, right? It was really something.”

“That’s the best it’s felt… since…” Scott thinks for a moment, breathing out a big sigh. “Since Vancouver, really.” He looks to Tessa for approval and she gives a tight smile, a nod, and he adds, “It was incredible. She was… incredible.”

“You both were,” Kate tells him with a broad, earnest smile and Tessa couldn’t be more grateful.

It’s not until they’re alone again that she can tell him herself, her hand firmly clutching his. She struggles to articulate her feelings, even more so with a group of people watching. It’s Scott and only Scott who gets to hear her shy, softly spoken words of support.

“You were wonderful tonight. And I, uh, I was… _I am_ so proud of you,” she manages to say in the end, her gaze down.

He pulls her to him with his arms around her neck.

“Love you, T,” is all he says in reply.

Quietly, so quiet she wonders if he even hears, she adds, “I’m so happy. I’m so happy we’re doing this.”

He gives a squeeze and one of his hands drops to her back, rubbing circles there.

The following night, after the gala finishes, Scott insists on taking Marie-France out for dinner with them as a thank you. He slips away sometime after dessert to settle the bill discreetly, before Marie even has a chance to argue with him. Tessa half-expects as much and catches him out, spotting him lingering by the bar after he'd said he was going to the men's room. There’s a moment where they lock eyes across the room and he just gives a wink.

When they get up to leave and she realizes what he’s done, Marie pretends to be cross but she’s too endeared to really sell it. "It should be me spoiling you!" she chastises him.

Tessa’s quick to cut in: "This week was truly everything we could've hoped and that's so much thanks to you." Her hand rests over her heart. 

"I love you both," Marie replies, looking from one to the other. She shakes her head like she's shaking off tears before they wrap her up in a hug, with Tessa sandwiched in the middle of it as Scott reaches his arms out behind her. 

They all head back to the hotel together, parting in the lobby.

For Scott, the night’s still young. For Tessa, there’s a bubble bath, a few emails and some bedtime reading on her agenda.

Not longer after, she settles into her freshly made hotel room bed, opening up the hardback her sister had bought her for Christmas. She’s a few chapters in and it’s gripping, but it’s not him. She finds herself having to read the same paragraph again and again because her thoughts drift to Scott, and to those letters they’ve written for each other. She wonders if he’s taken the same risk that she has, emboldened by the lack of immediate consequences. They’ll deal with those letters in a year, when it’s all done, when they might at last be ready for something that’s not all about optimisation and marginal gains.

Her mind runs through every possible scenario.

Some days, when practice is going well or they find perfect unison, she doesn’t have a doubt in her mind. She doesn’t question his love for her in this minute, even if their colourful past holds its mysteries. This is one of those days, or weeks. It wasn’t just a good practice, it was an unforgettable competition – the best of the comeback so far, the fuel to push them forward.

They’d won their seventh national title.

He’d lifted her up and the crowds had gone wild and it was everything they could ever dream of. It was a reminder of everything they’re capable of.

Today, she knows he loves her. She knows from the look in his eye as he’d knelt before her and the tightness of his hug as they celebrated their victory together. Whatever he wrote in his letter, she can’t believe it doesn’t come down to that: _I love you_. That’s how she knows that if she were home for this one impulsive moment in her life, she’d rip apart the envelope and pull out his message to find the words she now longs to read.

She doesn’t have the envelopes, though. Not in this hotel.

What she does have is Scott’s room number. Lucky 202.

She knocks three times. Once, then two quick follow-ups.

The door flies open almost immediately to reveal him standing there, a broad grin on his face that only widens when he clocks that it’s her. Looking at Scott – dressed in patriotic sweats that look soft and cozy and like they’ve never seen an iron, with that dazzled look in his eye that feels like the sharpest spotlight – it’s hard to take anything else in. It takes a beat before she notices the voices coming from behind him.

“Tess!” he says warmly, throwing his arms around her in greeting.

She tries not to let her own smile slip as she spots Patrick, Poje and Eric sat around on the floor behind him. Kaitlyn’s there too, half-asleep and leaning on Andrew’s shoulder, Tessa sees as he pulls the door a little wider.

He gestures for her to come in because there’s really no other option at this point, and the group cheers at the sight of her. “Tessa!” Eric calls out, perhaps in surprise. Because why is she here? In Scott’s hotel room. At 11:15pm. Thankfully no one asks that question aloud.

And then she glances back at Scott, and the expression on his face is definitely asking exactly that question. She perches on the edge of his bed as he follows her lead to sit beside her. As the conversation between their friends returns to post-Worlds celebration plans, Scott takes his opportunity.

“Why did you come here tonight, Tess?” he asks, quiet enough that no one should hear him, but firm, direct, unavoidable.

Her reply is even quieter, even lower, as she turns to look him in the eye. “I came here tonight because when you realize…” But she can’t quite say it. This isn't the moment. Tessa scans the room, watching as Patrick and Eric crease up over some comment she must have missed, as Kaitlyn’s hand curls even tighter around her partner’s arm. She looks back at Scott and says, “I just… wanted to thank you. And see how much I owed you, for tonight.”

“Tessa?” 

“We always split the bill.”

“I think we can make an exception,” he says with a dry laugh, his eyes studying her for the truth. “Tessa, why did you really come here?”

Her reply never comes. 

She can sense his frustration; she can feel the exhalation he releases in a sigh.

He waits a while, and then when it’s clear that she’s not going to break the silence, he does. His tone is light and breezy: “You wanna stay in here and celebrate with us?”

“I’ll stay a while,” she agrees, a sad half-smile ready on her lips.

He casually wraps his arm around her shoulders and they turn their attention back to the group. He’s quick to seamlessly jump back into the repartee, immediately insistent that his hotel room should not be treated as anyone’s party venue because their mini bar bill always gets out of control. He’s laughing as he says it, as Eric pours himself a drink with a big, smug grin on his face, and she knows he doesn’t mean a word of it. She knows he loves them all being there; she knows he would go broke before he kicked anyone out. 

The lively conversation distracts the others from the way Scott subtly moves his arm down again just so that his hand can hold hers between them, rested against the mattress. (Well, she assumes it does, anyway.) 

She closes her eyes as his fingers slide between hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. (P.S. I saw someone tweeting about this fic and it blew my mind a little bit so HI IF THAT WAS YOU! It made me really happy.)


	12. one year out

The programs for the Olympic year had been a frequent subject of conversation since the moment their two-year plan had begun. Especially the free dance. 

It was their chance to decide how they wanted to end their careers, what the final story they wanted to tell was. It was their legacy moment. And so the reins had remained firmly in the hands of Tessa and Scott from the beginning. They went back and forth with the coaching team on every new idea, but the word Scott would repeat and repeat was simple: passion. They wanted to make an impact.

“We can’t control the scores,” Scott had said, with the entire team gathered around a table, notebooks in front of them and half-covered whiteboards in the background. “What we can control is _us_. I want us to create a moment. I want us to make a mark, be remembered. And gold won’t guarantee that anyway, right? We need to raise the roof of that arena,” he’d gestured with his hands to demonstrate as he spoke, “and just blow it all the way off.”

She’d laughed a little at his dramatic analogy, at the way he’d thrown his arms out as he finished. But then he’d looked only at her, the aperture of his attention closing in on her eyes, and added, “That can only happen if it’s music we connect to, if the story comes from us. Me and you.”

They’d spoken to Marie-France multiple times to insist that they wanted, “something like Moulin Rouge. Obviously _not_ Moulin Rouge because that’s so overdone,” Tessa had rolled her eyes as she’d said it, “and, well, you know how people were over Carmen so.”

“Including you for… how many years?” he’d pointed out.

“Including me,” she’d conceded.

So, that had been that.

Over time, though, “something like Moulin Rouge” became the obstacle. Every piece of music they’d listen to could never quite measure up, never quite conjure that fire. And it had to be big and immediate. This was their swan song, their grand finale. Nothing less than a shared burning passion would do it. Something like Moulin Rouge, _but not Moulin Rouge_. Too bad that she was already visualizing their tragic end pose, too bad that she could picture the lovelorn look on his face every time she listened to ‘Come What May’. And yet, she couldn’t stop listening to ‘Come What May’.

“I was thinking of watching Moulin Rouge tonight,” she’d told him one day, as they were finishing up practice. “Just to see if it inspires any ideas. I know we’re… not doing it, but I thought—“ 

“I’ll come over?” he’d suggested, sensing the invitation before it was offered.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

She should’ve guessed there and then how this would go.

Tessa had put some dried fruit into a bowl for them to snack on and placed it between the two of them. He’d grabbed the chenille blanket and pulled it over both their legs. They’d both changed into sweats, comfortably curled up at either end of her sofa as she’d pointed her remote to start up the DVD.

“This is gonna be us when we’re 80, you know,” he’d told her, a funny expression on his face. It was light and teasing, his eyebrows raised as though anticipating her reply.

“I hope so,” Tessa had said, perhaps just to herself.

His eyes moved from her face to the TV screen. “Watching movies on the couch with our dried fruit snacks.”

“It’ll be Jeopardy and hard candy when we’re 80,” she corrected him.

“It’s a date.”

She had shaken her head (perhaps a few too many times), but she couldn’t resist a smile, big and bashful. Now she _really_ had to avoid looking in his direction.

It wasn’t until they were watching the ‘Elephant Song Medley’ that Tessa began to realize how inevitable it all was. Satine was dejectedly singing, “ _Love makes us act like we are fools, throw our lives away on one happy day_ ,” as Christian was dancing around her, insisting, “ _We should be lovers!”_

“ _We can’t do that_ ,” she’d replied.

Tessa shrunk into the sofa, pulling a cushion out from behind her to hold against her chest. Scott’s eyes remained fixed on her television, engrossed as Satine’s mind started to change, as her walls started to come down, as the couple from the movie belted out, “ _We could be heroes, forever and ever. We could be heroes, just because I will always love you. I can’t help loving you_.”

As the secret lovers on the screen tried to hide their romance from the world, as they concealed true feelings to protect each other, as they came back together and made promises until their dying day, that’s when Tessa had known. So many things, but above all, this was _it_. Their free dance. As long as Scott felt the same, that was.

When she’d turned to look at him, amidst the dramatic denouement, the expression on his face was tense; his mouth was tight, his jaw was clenched, his cheeks were wet.

“You wanna do it, don’t you?” she’d whispered, giving his leg a little prod with her foot. He’d smiled tightly straight away, but hadn’t looked at her. Without glancing away from the TV, his hand had moved to hold her foot, ostensibly to stop her from nudging him again, though he began to absent-mindedly massage it as though it was merely a gesture of tactile affection.

Defensive and unconvincing, he’d told her, “No.”

She’d glared at him, pleading for his attention but his eyes had remained resolutely fixed on the screen. Christian and Satine were singing the closing bars of their love song.

An easy laugh in it, she’d just said, “Okay.”

So, when Four Continents comes around, it’s still hanging in the air. Certain but uncertain. This decision they keep going back to, conversation after conversation, but still don’t feel quite ready to confirm. Patrice and Marie-France had seemed so lukewarm about it. When they’d mentioned the idea to Alma, her knitted brow gave them both a little pause before she’d added, “But I always come around by the end of the season, right?”

It’s only when they walk into the Gangneung Ice Arena for the first time that something changes. Tessa gets a feeling in her gut that she couldn’t articulate if she tried, but when she sees Scott there beside her, the look in his eye says she doesn’t have to. He already knows.

It’s like she’s watching them skate the routine now. Their Moulin Rouge.

If the chemistry is what they’ve got over everyone else, they’re not going to leave any points on the board. The problem is, it’s not just chemistry. It’s not even just lust. It’s more dangerous. She’s visualizing the movements of a routine they haven’t yet choreographed. It’s little more than a storyboard. Sharp and powerful, filled with passion. Until passion turns into something better, something more delicate: love.

“One year out,” Scott reminds her as they stand side by side, looking out at the empty arena, this place that holds all of their wildest dreams inside its walls. That’s the moment she remembers that one day all of this will be over. One day, a year from now, they’ll take their final bows and enter into the mystic once more. And this time it’ll be real and lasting. This time there’ll be no two-year plan to bring them back together; it’ll come down to them.

“Let's have the time of our lives.” He sounds so full of heart and hope. She laughs a little at his earnest enthusiasm, at the fearlessness of the suggestion.

"Absolutely," she agrees, and feels him move to stand behind her. He grabs onto her hands and pulls them around himself. She leans back against him.

"One year, Tess," he says, and it's happy and sad in equal measure. She thinks about the envelopes then for the first time since Nationals. She can see them banded together with a strand of twine in the top drawer of her bedside table, the knot untying in her mind's eye. 

“One more year,” she repeats quietly.

“It’s never gonna get any better than this,” she hears him say, his lips close to her ear as his chin rests on the line of her shoulder. Disbelieving joy bursts from his words before she’s able to catch the melancholy implicit in the sentiment. “It’s the most fun it’s ever been, eh? Those first few months were a killer but, man, every time I hear our music, it’s like lightning. We have to love every program as much as these.”

She squeezes him tighter, her arms closing even more firmly around him.

He adds, “We gotta make it impossible for them to deny us. We can’t settle for anything less than lightning – we need to _feel_ it.”

She takes a hold of his hands now, moving her arms and his back out in front of them and wrapping herself up in his warm hug. He’s so calm like this, so _hers_. There’s a profound comfort in the way he can be flying around the rink, playing around with their teammates, being the life and soul, but then he’ll always come back to her. In her arms, he settles. He’s her home and maybe, just maybe, she’s his too.

It’s inside the comfort of their embrace that Tessa confesses, at last, “I know everyone else is… unsure about it, I know it’s a risk,” she turns around to face him without ever leaving the circle of his arms, “but I really believe that it has to be Moulin Rouge.”

She watches the smile stretch across his face. She watches the lines crease at the corners of his eyes. She watches him lower his forehead to rest against hers.

“I’m so happy you said that,” he tells her with a relieved laugh, bringing one hand up to his chest. He lets out a melodramatic sigh.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Let’s make our mark, kiddo.” 

Scott lets go of her then, sliding back just a little on the ice before he holds his hand out. She knows why. She indulges him, slapping her hand to his before alternating between both hands as they slowly speed up. It builds to a high five, then a low five, an elbow bump, then a fist bump. It’s an old, familiar handshake that they’d spent hours perfecting in their days back at Kitchener.

She can’t help but smile at the fond throwback. It’s his little way of shaking on it.

It’s a reminder of how long they’ve been doing this, how long he’s been here, _right here_ , by her side.

His arms fold as he takes in a full 360 of the place and when he stills again, looking straight ahead, she leans her elbow onto his shoulder. They breathe it in, finding effortless synchronicity in the moment before he interrupts their contented silence to say, melodramatic and grandiose, “One day, all of this will be ours.”

Tessa chuckles a little at his silliness.

But she thinks to herself, _they can keep it all; I only want you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Worlds.


	13. falling

It had fallen apart so gradually, each step of their undoing almost imperceptible until, all of a sudden, he was out of reach. No big blow-ups. No confrontation at all. It was texts not sent and looks averted and messages getting mixed. And one unanswered voicemail.

There was no talking about it. Therein lay the problem. 

They didn't fight. They just didn't talk.

There had been no closure.

Sometimes Tessa would even open up her messages app to type something out, who knows what, but the words never came to her. She would wonder if he did the same. Once, she’d even caught a flash of a grey ellipses bubble. No text ever followed.

When the ice beneath their feet had cracked, they'd found themselves drowning in cold water. There was no choreography to pull him close; nothing could compensate for those hours of practice. That had been how Tessa knew – or thought she knew – that, after everything, it had never been real for him. All of those looks were part of the story they were telling. He was just a much better actor than their TV commercials had ever led her to believe.

Even knowing that, and how certain she'd felt for so long, her doubts still creep in now that they are back together. There are moments, on the ice and off it, when Scott looks at her like his world is black and white and she is technicolour. Then Worlds comes along and galvanizes those doubts into something bigger, something that looks like hope, hope that she’s been wrong all along. They’d spent two years falling apart but it’s Scott falling alone, crashing down against the ice as she drifts backwards inside their choreography, that truly wakes her up to the possibility of something _real_.

The gasp of the crowd stings in her memory.

“So dramatic,” she says to him as he returns to her side. She squeezes his hand. _Together_. _Every step. Every moment. Every breath_.

As they find their ending position, with his face pressed against her heaving chest, Tessa strokes through his fluffy, overgrown mop of hair. She can feel the tension in his body still, not the usual post-performance relief but an enduring tightness in his hold. It’s only her tender touch that relaxes him ever so slightly, her thumb brushing against his ear. It’s not much but it’s all she has for now.

They stand up for the hugs and the bows. He’s already whispering apologies, broken sentences she doesn’t need him to speak. As Tessa finds her feet, she takes one look at him and falls forward with all her weight, wrapping her arms around his neck like she’s holding onto her life preserver. She hopes that’s enough for now, hopes that the smile he wears isn’t entirely for show – but she knows better than that.

She also knows not to tell him he was good, knows he’ll only shake his head. She knows not to ask if he’s okay, a stupid question. When the scores are announced – “currently in first place” – her relief is for him. There’s no elation for this win, only relief. At least he doesn’t have to carry a broken winning streak.

Tessa keeps her hand firm on his back and says nothing until they’re out of the spotlight.

“You think I would’ve won gold with anyone else?” she asks, taking him by surprise as they finally escape the cameras and the crowds. She’s coming out guns blazing, hoping it hides the underlying tension of tears sitting in her throat. “Think I’d even have kept my skates on once I grew up if not for you?”

He studies her face as her eyebrows hitch up to emphasize her question. 

“You’ve kept me going for 20 years, Scott, so I won’t let you wallow and blame yourself and think about almosts and what ifs. We won. You tripped because shit happens sometimes, but we won anyway,” she reminds him, her tone holding strong. Tessa speaks like she’s putting on her best Scott. She sounds like him, like every time he’s picked her up after a bad skate.

And then her voice softens, dancing delicately over her most pertinent point: “You didn’t let me down, Scott. You never could.” She punctuates her sentiment with a shrug, like the sky is blue and the earth is round and this is just another fact of life. There are laws of the universe and this is one of them.

He gives a little nod before pulling her into a hug, drawing back to kiss her temple. They hold each other for just a little while, and now they’re syncing, not sinking.

Later, when they collect their medals, she feels her heart break for him all over again. As the score plays while they skate over to the podium, he lets go of her hand to perform the steps as they should have been. He carries himself like he’s lost something – confidence, at least – and she lets him, waits for him to take her hand again, just like she’ll wait for him to let her pull him back up for air, however long it takes.

When the reporters ask about the fall, and she knows they will but nevertheless, she feels her stomach lurch. She wants to step in and intercept it, but Tessa knows better by now; years of media training will do that to a person. She’s been covering them and, given every opportunity, Scott’s opted not to elaborate on her answers. He’s unusually quiet, sullen without being sulky; there’s apology in his manner but he can’t muster another fake smile. For this question, though, he knows he has to speak and she can’t save him. When he does answer, every word is so heavy with his frustration and disappointment that she wants to take his restless hands in hers and hold them still.

He needs an escape and she’s the emergency exit.

 _It’ll be over soon_ , she tells herself and tries to somehow telepathically tell him. And it is. They escape the room as soon as possible, and before they know it, they’re in the back of a car on their way to their hotel.

As soon as they get in, Tessa slides into the middle seat, even though it’s only the two of them. She rests her temple against his shoulder without hesitation and his head settles on top. Instinctively, she slides one hand into his and the other wraps around his forearm, her whole body turned towards him, protective and protected.

“I’m so sorry, Tessa,” he can’t help but say.

She doesn't tell him that the stricken look on his face after he’d fallen had said as much about how he felt as a perfect, polished performance; in fact, it's more. She doesn't tell him how much the way he’d said, "Wasn't she just..." in that dreamy, distant way that trailed off into silence, like he couldn’t fully articulate the length and depth and breadth of it, makes her want to fold her whole body into his. Tessa simply replies, “Please don’t be sorry. Be happy.”

She pulls back to look him in the eye. “I’m proud of you. And I really just want you to be happy,” she repeats, watching as tears fall down his cheeks.

With her hand rested on his face, she brushes away the glistening wetness on his skin the same way he had a million years ago, when she’d first told him about needing surgery. The way she’d wanted him to on those lost, lonely nights spent apart as they fumbled their way through their broken retirement.

They hold each other until they arrive at the hotel and then she walks him to his room, leaving him there only after Scott promises that he’ll be okay. “I will, Tess. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Technically, he’s not wrong.

“Couldn’t sleep,” is the explanation on his lips when she opens her door to find him standing there in the hallway of their hotel at 2:45am.

“I just… I needed to talk to someone, I needed… I needed my best friend.” He looks like he hasn’t slept a wink, a glaring redness marking out his eyes. He’s wringing his hands and blinking heavily as he speaks. “You’re my best friend, Tessa. You’re my best friend. Isn’t that, uh…” Scott laughs in that sad, joyless way that’s not even a little bit funny. “I guess it’s not so surprising after all, when you think about. And I know I don’t deserve to come here at,” he looks down at his watch only to find an empty wrist, “well, I don’t even know what time, but I just… needed you. If that makes any sense.” He runs a hand through his wild, unkempt hair, looking down at the out-dated print of the carpet.

“I promise I won’t say anything. I won’t even touch you. I just need to be with you, if that's okay,” he says. And her heart aches for him as her hand stretches out to hold his face, drawing him into her hotel room, into her embrace. 

Tessa hugs him for what feels like forever and then walks him over to the little two-seater couch, rubbing circles against his back as they move to it. They settle together and she doesn’t try to impose distance, doesn’t remind him of their rules or redraw the line between them; she cozies into his side, settling her palm against the familiar hardness of his chest. She feels his breathing steady beneath her hand, and the tension drains from his body. _It’s physiological_. _It has to be real_.

For the longest time, they don’t say a word. There’s communication in the silence. There’s the restoration of their togetherness in the way she leans her head back to look up at him with wide, adoring eyes that say, _it’s me and you_. And then she teases him, “You know how long I’ve been waiting for you to admit I’m your best friend? You always said, ‘no, no… I’m a popular guy, Tess.’ But I got you in the end.”

She feels his chest rise and fall as he laughs at that.

“Yeah, you got me,” Scott replies, the cadence of his words sounding happier than he’s been since the fall. It compels her to lean away, adjusting herself to sit up a little so that she can see his face again properly and savour its warmth. He breathes in sharply before he starts to say, "As my best friend, I think you should know that there's this... There's this girl I like.”

She’s trying to fix her expression with a poker face, sensing his focused gaze studying her for tells. He carries on: “I think she feels the same way about me, but it's complicated. We've known each other a long time..."

"Maybe she's scared," Tessa says, her voice tiny and meek.

His face transforms from angst to tender concern. "Yeah, I think that's it. Sometimes I just think… she’s so worried about breaking it, she won’t even… touch it. And I'm scared too, you know. Thing is, we've been scared of failure before, we just never let that stop us."

“It’s not just another medal,” she points out.

“The more it means, the better we are. That’s us,” he declares with such certainty. And there’s something in his eyes. Looking at the resolute conviction there, Tessa thinks to herself that she might never have been so sure of anything, instead riddled with self-doubt. “Do you remember that terrible practice before Vancouver? _Fuck_ , everything before Sochi? When I split my boot right before Worlds?”

“Scott, we lost two of those competitions.” 

“We skated clean. We skated our best.”

“Our best isn’t always good enough, though, is it?” 

“So that analogy backfired, eh?” he says, clearly a little exasperated by her stubbornness. She gives a nod, before he chides, “I thought you were meant to be cheering me up, T.”

“Shut up.” She nudges him in the arm.

Scott playfully feigns pain before the silliness of the moment washes away and he’s looking at her like he can see into her soul – again. (This really is becoming a problem.) “Listen, I’m sorry for pushing you. I know you need time, even if I can’t give you space.”

“I don’t want space from you, Scott. I never did.”

It turns out she could be pretty sure of some things after all.

He takes in another deep breath and she watches him. She notices the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. She studies his wistful smile. Then she breaks the silence to ask, “Why are _you_ scared?” 

He gives a dry laugh as if to say, isn’t it obvious? “One of these days, she’s gonna wake up and see that I’m," he pauses, shaking his head, “just me. After the skating’s done, I’ll be regular Joe and you— _she_ , she’ll still be this… this… superstar. And she deserves someone who’ll shine with her.”

“I think you’re wrong. I think she wakes up every morning feeling like the luckiest girl in the world just to get to hold your hand.”

A beat passes between them, heavy with the weight of 20 years.

“Tessa?” he says, his gaze harsh and fixed. “I don’t… I don’t really even know who I am if I’m not skating by your side.”

“You’re Scott.” It sounds almost childlike.

“I don’t think I am, not without you in my life." He rolls his eyes with a laugh and brings a hand up to cover his face, leaning away from her all of a sudden. “That’s so embarrassing. Pretend I didn’t say that.”

She wants to say, _but_ _I’m not the one who ran away_. But she can’t. He’s broken and dejected, and tonight he doesn’t deserve honesty; he deserves love. She’s got enough of that to get them through. 

Tessa nestles into him again, lifting his hand with hers and lacing their fingers together. “We just have to… savour every second we have left. There’s so much more we’ve got left to do, so much we can still achieve.”

“Finally got that perfect season under our belts,” he says, sounding a little more distant all of a sudden. Knowing her discomfort with the word ‘perfect’ and remembering his earlier stumble, he quickly corrects himself: “ _Undefeated_ season.”

Just for him and for tonight, Tessa lets it slide. That word. “It was perfect, Scott.”

She can feel his face move to a smile and can’t help but do the same.

The next day, they perform to ‘Sorry’ one last time at the gala. He slides a hand slowly down her forearm to entwine his fingers with hers, the heat of his stare a burning tingle on her skin as she stares resolutely ahead. Tessa listens to Scott sing, “ _Girl, I know that I let you down but is it too late to say sorry now?_ ” in her ear while wearing that ridiculous, tacky, charming top that has their names written across a pink heart. 

That’s when she thinks that maybe life’s never going to be sweeter than dancing inside their choreography, but she’s got exactly 11 more months until the Olympics and she’ll savour every second, just like she told him.


	14. a little fire

When spring comes, bringing with it a vibrant burst of good weather, it flies by at speed. The days pass in a blur, each one another subtraction from their Olympic countdown.

Everything is intensified by the importance of this moment in their lives, this farewell season. She considers every ‘last’ as it passes them by. Last mood board for a competitive program. Last B2Ten season plan scheduling session. And then there are the things she won’t notice are happening for the last time until long after they’re over. Those are the ones she dreads the most: last time he brings her morning coffee fix, last carpool sing-along, last ‘accidental’ kiss.

They know now to savour it, every second of it. The good, the bad and the deeply confusing feelings that they’re still not talking about.

The intensified focus on relishing every moment means that Tessa _feels_ everything on some deeper level that she can’t quite articulate. The streets of Montreal seem more alive, the flavours of Scott’s cooking at the end of each long day taste richer, the beating of her heart as they settle into a final pose is louder in her ears. She just tries to enjoy it, tries not to listen to the egg timer that’s ticking away in some corner of her mind.

The sun saturates the lush colour of the city, revealing the gorgeous green of the parks in a way she’d never fully appreciated before. It draws her outside to run more than ever, seizing the opportunity to escape the stifling air of the gym. The time apart from Scott appeals too, in a way, giving her time to reflect. Of course, it’s still those infrequent occasions when he joins her, lining up his own run to fit hers inside his, that she enjoys most of all, though. There’s a little extra spring in her step, a lightness in her body as they go along together.

He talks and she listens. He waxes poetic about the flowers that are blooming, the strange, unidentifiable birds that land in their path, the local characters they encounter en route. He never seems to mind that she doesn’t say a lot in return, but whenever Tessa does speak, his whole head turns to listen.

They pound the paths in perfect stride, looking around at the sights of the city, grateful to be allowed out of their cramped gym just for this. It’s early evening, but the busy sidewalks do nothing to dispel the privacy of their time together. She still feels like they’re the only two people in the world. It’s their little secret, their private joke, theirs and only theirs.

“I love this place,” she says, breathless, as they jog through a row of cherry blossom trees. There’s something final about it, as though her tone is in the past tense even if her words aren’t.

“It brought us back together,” is his reply, with the cadence of agreement.

She turns just to catch a glimpse of his inevitable grin, before asking, “When did you get so sentimental?”

“I’m making a play to get you to do the last three miles with me,” Scott jokes. He waits for her to look at him again before giving a wink, with no idea of just how persuasive it is. 

“Not a chance,” she replies anyway. And they soon reach a crossroads where their paths diverge. He’s got another few blocks to go, while her own workout is almost over.

“I’d ask you to put the dinner on, but I know you better than that,” Scott calls back to her as he speeds off. He turns his head to look back at his partner and earns a big, bright smile from her. Tessa watches him wipe his forehead melodramatically, playing up the exertion of it, and then he turns away. His hair bobs along as he runs, tied half up and half down now that it’s grown longer than ever. Her eyes stay on him, her own run set to pause until he disappears off into the distance.

As he drifts out of sight, it’s peculiar how quickly she feels herself start to miss him. It’s nothing big, nothing she’s not felt a thousand times before, but it usually takes a good five minutes. Now it’s instant. He’s not there anymore, so she wishes he was.

There was once a time when this would elicit a gut-deep panic. But Marie-France’s voice in her head keeps reminding her, “You just want to be around each other always, you’re better if you are. Your strength lies in one another.” It shouts down the pessimistic view that Marina had taken. She trusts Marie-France; she trusts that if this dependency were to become an obstacle, her coach would say something. Besides, Tessa often finds herself wondering if she’s not the only one feeling it. There’s something of an answer to that in the way he finds excuses to eliminate any time spent apart.

The next day, after their on-ice session, they’ve got a couple of hours of body conditioning to sweat through. As Scott finishes his much-loathed rope exercises covered in a sheen of sweat, he presses his back to the wall in an effort to hold himself up. He catches Tessa’s eye across the room as she continues with her push-ups, and she smiles – she can’t really help it – at the face he pulls. His eyes go so wide, like they might pop out, and his mouth hangs open.

“You done?” she asks with a laugh.

“I’d say so.”

He walks over to her, replacing her personal trainer without a word. This is an old routine of theirs. No explanation required. A nod, at most.

“I don’t know how much help you’re gonna be, looking at the state of you,” she points out as he takes up his position beside her.

“I’ll try not to be too offended by that, T.”

“How are the arms doing?”

“Just fine,” he fires back, and then limply throws his floppy limbs around in a wild, uncontrollable motion, serving to prove her right. He pretends not to be able to stop for a second, earning a wry shake of the head from Tessa as she suppresses anything more. She’s used to this version of Scott now: silly and playful, even in the midst of the most intensive training of their lives, even as their unrelenting schedules barely allow breathing room for spontaneity. He always finds room.

“I’ll remember this image the next time you’re lifting me.”

She draws a full body laugh out of him at that, his face creasing up just for her. When he’s done chuckling at her comment, his expression settles again on something serious.

“You really don’t have to hang around, you know,” she reassures him.

He hovers there at her side until she’s finished her reps, insisting that he’s got nothing else to do until their session with Sam after lunch. “Unless you wanna finish up on your own,” he says as an addendum.

“No, I just thought you’d wanna go the first chance you got,” she answers softly, hoping the members of their team loitering in the room don’t hear her. 

“I’m good here,” he says in return, not really caring who hears.

Scott stays until they go to change. They walk out side by side, and he holds her water bottle until she reaches for it. She almost forgets her towel too, but he throws it at her so that it lands on her face. He’s gone before she can pull it away. And there’s that feeling again.

Thankfully, it doesn’t arise too often. The togetherness she’d dreamed of finding when this comeback had started is more real than ever.

Once they’ve changed out of their gym gear into looser fitting sweats, they hop in the car to grab lunch together before heading over to the dance studio. As Tessa takes her pick from the menu and then reels off Sam’s very particular order to their server, Scott absently places his hand on her back while he reads the specials board carefully. It comes as no surprise when he orders the same as always, but then he adds, “No mayo in yours, right?”

“Oh, yeah.” She’d forgotten to say. 

“No problem,” the lady behind the counter tells them before turning away to prepare their food.

While they wait, Tessa stands directly in front of Scott to avoid getting in the way of other people in line. He folds his arms around her neck, crossing them in front of her so that his hands settle on her shoulders. Together, they take a deep breath in and out, and then her hands come up to hold his forearms. She can feel his face against the back of her head, the sensation of a tender kiss stirring butterflies in her stomach. She can’t help but lean back into it, into him. 

They stay like this until their order number is called out, prompting Scott to release her from his hold. She hesitates before she moves off.

Maybe Patch and Marie are right. Maybe denying themselves is more of a problem. But she can’t give into 20 years of wanting because of the way his back muscles tighten as he does the high low chop, or the way her body tingles every time he touches her, or the way he undresses her with his eyes.

Any tension – or rather, all of the pent-up sexual frustration – between them dissolves during the car ride over to the dance studio and is replaced by relaxed, enthusiastic sing-alongs to everything from Whitney to Taylor Swift. Maybe it’s the glorious sunshine or the pop-powered playlist or the smile he’s wearing for her today, but Tessa takes the lead for once. Scott just sits back and watches her pretend to play along to the banjo riff, trying to keep his eyes on the road for long enough that he doesn’t crash into the back of someone.

“ _Losing him was blue like I’ve never known, missing him was dark gray all alone, forgetting him was like trying to know somebody you’ve never met. But loving him was red. Oh, red. Burning red_!” she sings along without a care, giggling a little every time a hint of self-awareness creeps in.

When the song ends, she confesses, "I still won't sing in the car with anyone else," before his eyes flash up. He tries to hide the grin that follows but she catches it; she catches it like a cold, mimicking his expression.  

"You're denying the world that beautiful voice?" 

"I'll remember that sarcasm the next time you come begging for a duet."  

Scott’s quick to relay the news of Tessa’s diva moment to Sam when they burst into the studio. She just rolls her eyes and lets him steamroll the conversation with an exaggerated re-enactment that involves only about 50% of the correct lyrics. He’s using a water bottle as his microphone and throwing his overgrown hair from side to side.

“Diva Tessa! Yes!” Sam replies, in the same exuberant way he says most things. “I love it! We need it in the dance, yes! A little fire!”

One thing’s becoming very clear: a little – or a lot of – fire is exactly the thing that’s going to get her in trouble. And it’s also exactly what’s fuelling every program they’re planning. She laughs it off, but when it comes down to the choreography they’re experimenting with, every step is rooted in exploring the chemistry between them.

The next thing they know, they’re in the dance. His hands are all over her, and it’s at once utterly unremarkable and irrepressibly tantalizing to be pressed up against him like this. Both programs are charged with passionate sensuality like nothing they’ve done since ‘Carmen’ and it leaves no room for recovery. There’s no break in the tension, at least not when they’re doing the work right. And it’s hard to ignore the sensation of his hand sweeping up her arm with all the friction of a match striking.

Her body moves with his, _to_ his, as they follow Sam’s suggestions, exploring new ideas as the music plays.

They’re still working on getting both their coaches on side for the Moulin Rouge free dance, trying to break through with that little piece of choreography that’ll win everybody over. It’s the first time they’ve disagreed with Marie and Patch and it gives Tessa a horrible feeling of déjà vu. The discussions are lively and relaxed but she’s flashing back to Scott and Marina having it out over ‘Seasons’, remembering how immovable their coach had been, insistent that “it must be Russian composer”. While she knows Marie and Patch are worlds away from Arctic Edge, the conflict is uneasy. Before now, the most they’d found to argue about had been a purple unitard, and Patch had eventually fought her corner on that anyway. 

At least now she and Scott are completely on the same page. There’s something very unifying in having to fight for their shared vision. (She wonders sometimes if that’s a factor in their coaches’ resistance.)

Sam helps them develop the opening. They play the music again. All of a sudden, those first notes prompt their off-ice choreographer to burst out with a little flourish. It’s as though a light bulb moment has taken hold of his body, prompting Tessa and Scott to watch his movements before attempting to mirror them. It’s in the translation that his vision springs to life, and Tessa’s, and Scott’s.

So far, the routine they’ve been putting together has built its power progressively through the first half, but it’s lacked the sharpness that they’ve been striving for. Suddenly, in a single movement, the fire ignites from the very top. It captures the feeling of his touch, the match suddenly aflame in the midst of a blackout darkness. It blazes with a passion that’s ready to unfurl over the course of their four-minute routine.

Scott becomes the puppeteer pulling all the strings. The moment they try it, a glance up in time with the opening of ‘El Tango De Roxanne’, it feels as right. You can’t start a fire without a spark, and this is their spark.

When Marie-France stops by towards the end of the session, they show off the progress they’ve made with unabashed pride. She examines the choreography, her own body unconsciously moving with them on the spot, looking for all the little ways these steps can transform and transcend what they have now in the rink. It’s then that Tessa starts to feel a point being proven; she truly starts to believe that she and Scott are not just going to win them over with this program, but _win_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry you're having to be so patient with me. I'm trying to write as fast as possible to get you to your destination as quickly as I can, but I really hope you're enjoying the ride nevertheless. (My attention was a little diverted this week because I had to _very_ swiftly plan a spontaneous trip to Canada straight outta nowhere. I suspect I might not be the only one.)


	15. the voicemail

The first time they run through ideas for the twizzle sequence and their hands thrash down in time with the gruff roar of “Roxanne”, something clicks into place. The debate is over. And every time they practice it after that, it gets a little more satisfying, a little more intense. 

Something takes hold of Scott when that music starts. It’s raw and passionate and his character wants Tessa’s, and every touch is an electric shock. He’s touched her like this a thousand times before; in fact, she’s spent more time with his hands on her than any other person in the world, and yet this feels new.

For Tessa’s part, she falls into character effortlessly, finding Satine somewhere between the fire and the ice. The sensual physicality of the dance leaves her in complete control as Scott throws every bit of sexual frustration into the next set of turns. It’s Tessa the diva, just as Sam had put it.

After they find their twizzles, they work on the lift. It’s an oldie made new again, reinvigorated with palpable desire, per Marie-France’s request.

“You did have the… interesting lift for Carmen. Let’s try it here, but I want to see more passion,” she’d suggested, not so innocently. “We don’t want the acrobatics of the movement to diminish the fire between you. It needs to be hot, yes. We need to _feel_ it.”

They run through it with Marie and Sam skating around them on the ice to guide them through the choreography while Patch lingers at the boards, iPad in hand. After a few attempts, he replays the footage, dissecting every detail as Scott’s eyes narrow to full focus. The diligent student that he is, Scott’s nodding along, taking in the feedback: altered positioning for the entry, smoother dismount, stronger expression as they turn out. They then spend a good five minutes discussing the appropriate hand placement for Scott as he holds her there, with his face between her legs.

“It’s too high. You need your hands to be here. Firm,” Marie explains, turning and placing her own hands low on her hips.

Scott looks a little awkwardly from their coach to Tessa, only for her to nod in agreement. “You can, you know. Hips, ass… it’s nothing you haven’t had a handle on before,” she reassures him warmly, an easy smile on her lips. She doesn’t say a word about the way his nose brushes against the centre hem of her leggings, the way she can sometimes feel the tease of his breath between her legs. She could never tell him that it sends a shiver down her spine just thinking about it. But maybe it’s there when they lock eyes during the dismount. For now, all she can do is say, “It’s fine. It’ll be a smoother catch.”

When they get back into the choreography, he figures it out. That feeling they’re striving for starts to feel tangible. And the technical adjustments feed that. The technical adjustments and the fact that this dance isn’t so different from the one they’ve been in as long as they can remember. Marie’s concern about the acrobatics of the lift overwhelming the emotion of the performance is swiftly dismissed as they find each other’s eyes in a turn, the music playing out, “ _Believe me when I say I love you_.”

“Hot, hot, hot!” is Sam’s vocal assessment as they fall out of the choreography again. They’re laughing together, lightness restored, as they come apart before high fiving into a handhold.

The progress is steady. Little by little. But it’s progress. Piece by piece, their pièce de résistance starts to come together.

They find themselves hanging onto every word that Marie and Patch say, studying their every interaction. Partnership has been the key since the start, so as they strive to perfect the physical expression of the dance, there’s an unconscious study in emotional expression happening every time they watch their coaches interact. It’s balance and communication and warmth. And the checklist grows with every practice, but Tessa’s yet to find an item on it that they can’t cover. And that feels meaningful.

They’re practising a lift transition for ‘Come What May’ when Tessa loses her balance ever so slightly. Scott whispers, “I’ve got you,” before assuring her, “I’m not gonna drop you, Tess. Never have, never will.”

Marie-France overhears and jokes gently, “The same can’t be true for everyone,” as she shoots Patch a wry smile. “Too soon?”

He pouts at her, a little outrage in his expression as he puts his hands up in surrender. There’s a smile creasing his face as Marie-France rubs her hand on his back in a gesture of conciliation. When she goes to offer Tessa advice, to give her the key to unlocking a smoother descent, Marie doesn’t even seem aware of the way her hand stays firm on Patch’s back. She’s leaning into him still, unconscious of it, as Tessa studies them and smiles at it until Scott interrupts her thoughts with a hand on her waist, guiding her back towards the boards. 

It’s another electric shock. This one reverberates through her whole body and it’s like someone has shown her a flash of the future. She’s seen something she’s not supposed to see yet.

“You okay?” he asks, looking at her – really looking – to check for an answer.

“Yeah, yeah,” she answers, a little dizzy.

“You look—”

“I’m honestly fine,” she insists, forcing a smile, like he hasn’t known her long enough to know it’s fake by now, as her eyes fill with tears. Realizing how unconvincing she is, Tessa gives up a kernel of truth to appease him: “I was just… looking at Marie and Patch. They seem happy.”

He thinks about this for a moment before replying, “Yeah, they are.” _That could be us_ , she can hear him trying to tell her. But then they reach the boards.

It isn’t long before they’re going over steps again.

Each time they practice the routine, adding new sequences to fill out the space and map out the story, it extends the feeling. It draws out the tension that’s been building to a crescendo for well over a year now. The cord is pulled so tight, the snap feels inevitable.

And then comes the finale: Satine’s death.

They work on how to balance the finesse of the dance with the harshness of the loss. Tessa turns the movement of each choreographed fall into beauty and grace as her character slowly fades, collapsing into Scott’s embrace with weightless elegance. He holds her in his arms, her body rested over his knee before he pulls her closer and closer until she’s upright with him. He holds her head back and she’s gone. Satine’s gone.

As the music dies away, Tessa opens her eyes to witness Scott acting the broken-hearted lover still, lost inside the part, his brow marked with grief. His face changes as his gaze locks with hers. 

He’s an inch away, holding her suspended in his arms. She can feel his breath teasing her lips, starting a fire deep inside her. His eyes flick between her eyes and her mouth, as though waiting – pleading – for permission.

There is no miscommunication. There’s avoidance and fear and confusion, but it isn’t a matter of miscommunication. In this, they can communicate better than any two people on earth. Without words, most of the time. A single glance is all that’s needed. And here lies transparency. Absolute transparency. She knows he’s saying _fuck it_ , and _I love you_ , and _let me kiss you_ , just like she’s saying _we can’t_ and _not yet_ and _it’s too much of a risk_ – all without words. She can see him trying to suppress it for her sake, trying to be her best friend Scott instead of this scary, unknown, overwhelming love. But there’s urgency underneath it. He’ll wait, he _is_ waiting, but if they don’t face the underlying tension head on, she feels his fear that they’ll miss each other all over again.

So, here he is. Here they both are.

A strange feeling takes hold of Tessa as she gazes up at him there, staring down all of that hope and fear. All of that wonderful possibility. She can feel tears rising up in her chest, like water swiftly flooding from her feet up and threatening to drown her. She tries to swallow it away, but there’s no denying the sparkle in her eyes. She knows he sees it, she sees the way his brows knit together. She can’t tell if he says, “Tessa?” or if she just reads the question in his eyes.

“The voicemail,” she says in a breathless whisper, unable to stop the words from stumbling out in a desperate bid for freedom. It's that one unrelenting memory that she's been pushing away for months now, letting it slip away into the background of something far better. Because maybe it just got lost in the mail. Maybe it didn't mean anything anyway. “Did you get it?”

She watches his mouth tighten. His jaw clenches. He says nothing, and there’s her answer.

“You never said anything. You had to know what it meant,” _and what it took for me to say it_ , she wants to add. “And I just thought... maybe I was wrong. The way you are with me, I started to think maybe you’d just never heard it, that it got stuck inside that stupid phone that you barely know how to use. Or maybe it never happened and it was just a really vivid dream.”

There’s an openness in her expression that she can’t suppress, a vulnerability in the crinkle above her nose and the teardrop on her cheek. She can’t verbalize, _“You broke my heart!”_ – she can’t bear for him to hear those words, even now, but she knows it’s there, right in front of him. 

When he speaks, he sounds small.

“I was with someone.” 

“And then you weren’t,” she says, her voice quiet and soft and broken. A little like her. “And you said nothing to me, not until it was too late. And we’ve got other plans now. We’ve made commitments to people.”

“Yeah. I couldn’t…” _Finish a sentence_ , she thinks bitterly.

“I was right from the beginning, Scott,” Tessa whispers in reply, though her voice holds strong – stronger than his, at least. “I started to think—I don’t know. I started to get ideas about… us, but the thing is, you’re really only mine when we’re on the ice.”

“I’m sorry, Tess.” His voice cracks in time with her heart.

Tessa brings a hand up to hold his cheek, molding it to his face. “I know you are.”

“No, I—I wasn’t ready. But I’ve been trying to get there. I wasn’t ready then, but I am now.” He lowers himself to close the gap, resting his forehead against hers, as though in an effort to fuse his thoughts and feelings to hers. And then she hears him repeat the words that, once upon a time, she’d extracted so delicately from her heart: “‘I don’t want to ignore it anymore. I think we could be happy.’ We could be happy, Tess.”

Her breath hitches so hard, it makes her whole body jolt in his arms.

She can’t speak.

“If you’re not ready now, that’s okay,” he adds, like it’s nothing, or at least like he wants it to be nothing, no problem. Breezy. “I’ll wait. I know I’ve been impatient, but I’ll wait.” 

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t ask how long. _Till the next girl that catches his eye, perhaps. Till the Olympics are over and there are no more obligations. Not forever._  

“It’s too much for me,” she says eventually, putting a hand on both his shoulders to pull herself up straight at last. She sniffs back any remaining tears and breathes out a long, unsteady breath to compose herself. “And we’re in a good place.” 

“As long as my place is with you, it’s a good one.” 

She stares at him for a minute, trying to conceal the wide-eyed awe that threatens to overwhelm her; then the corner of her lips lifts to a smile. “I can’t believe you’re trying to give me a line right now,” Tessa replies, a laugh escaping her and cutting the tension between them in half.

“It’s not a line!”

“Yes, it _is_ a line.” She rolls her eyes just a little.

A silence follows and he’s looking down at her, asking what the right thing to do is. Her expression says _no funny business_. So he settles for a hug. It’s big and warm and comforting, and it makes her feel as though one Scott has been replaced by another. The one who broke her heart transforms into her steadfast best friend. And he’s all she needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm off for a fun weekend away so it'll be another little interlude between chapters but I hope this gets you a little excited for what's to come! Please note that instead of packing for my trip, I definitely just sat here fixing up this chapter instead. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	16. edge of love

They take a midsummer break. It’s one last pause before they’re hurtling towards the Olympics and the end of a 20-year career. While she disappears to her mom’s cottage by the lake with her sister, Scott runs back to Ilderton.

This time there’s no Christmas Eve call, no family gathering excuse, no recreational skating. They’re apart and pretending to be completely fine with that – at least, _she’s_ pretending. _He’s probably too distracted by his family, by his nieces using him as a human climbing frame. He must be relieved for a break._ (It’s funny what the mind can do.)

She remembers being better at this. She never used to pine.

There’s a temptation to call him but she talks herself out of it time and time again. She knows how much he’d craved a break from work. The last thing he needs is a call from his business partner.

Tessa spends far too much time wondering if the break he’d needed was really more about getting some space from her. She tries not caring, she even tries to muster some relief of her own, but all she does is miss him. It’s the kind of longing that manifests as a physical ache, a kind of gentle heartburn that distracts from the relief of respite and the joy of being around family. All she does is miss _him_. She misses his dumb jokes. She misses the way his whole face creases up in a smile. She misses his embrace. Most of all, she misses the feeling of being loved by him in that way that he does, like no one ever has.

The only thing that offers some comfort is Jordan reassuring her that he’d just needed his Ilderton fill, just a little slice of the beloved small town that rushes off his tongue every time they find their seats in a kiss and cry. He just needed home. He just needed home-cooked meals at Joe and Alma’s and time with the kids. This time away from her is nothing more than an unwelcome side effect.

“Tessa, if he wanted space, he wouldn’t follow you around like a puppy the rest of the time,” Jordan points out with a familial frankness that Tessa, at this moment, whole-heartedly appreciates. They’re lying tucked up under the covers of the youngest Virtue’s bed in the early hours of the morning, both far too focused on the topic at hand to notice the time. They’re lying on their sides to face each other; though, in the dark, neither one of them can see more than a vague silhouette. 

“Things were a little weird with us this week,” Tessa replies, an unmistakable tightness in her voice. “We kinda—well, we didn’t argue, but…”

“Tessa?”

“I called him… _two_ _years ago_ , to talk about us,” she says abruptly, a confession suddenly spilling out.

Something about the darkness of the room, the dim light making her feel like no one else is really there to hear anyway, draws a rare openness out of her. “It was right after Scotland and I just… I thought we kind of had… a moment. So I called him. He didn’t answer and, I don’t know what I was thinking, but I left him a voicemail.” She cuts herself off to note, “This is what I mean when I say he doesn’t mean it, not for real, not when we aren’t skating. I told him we could be happy together and he just… never said anything. Part of me even wondered if I’d dreamed it, or maybe he’d never got the message. Then I asked him outright during practice. I think we were about to kiss, but that nagging thought came into my head and I had to know. And the look on his face made me want the ground to swallow me.” 

When Tessa stops fumbling for the right words, her attention returns to her sister who’s turned from facing her to staring up at the ceiling. Tessa makes out an odd look on her face, and a heavy silence follows.

“Jordan?”

“T, I know about the voicemail.”

She sits up, alarm widening her eyes so that they shine, even in the dark. “What?”

“He told me.” _Scott_. “Honestly, I think the only reason he did was because he assumed I’d already know, that _you_ would’ve told me. As soon as he realized I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, he completely shut down.”

“What? Why? Why would he mention that?”

Tessa’s reeling. 

She's quiet and shaken and teary. And then she thinks about it more and feels a burst of anger run through her body, fire in her words: "Why would he talk to you about that? And not me?" 

"Back then I guess he just… needed someone, someone who’d hear him out. He was really fucked up, Tess, and he couldn’t back then. For a lot of reasons. He was kind of lost, I think. It seemed like that whole time just knocked him out and I figured he talked to me because I know you. I guess I became a strange simulacrum for him.”

Tessa listens with her eyes closed. Just lying there talking about Scott is like pressing down on a bruise. She tries to cut off the feeling, holding her breath without even noticing.

"But you never said a word about it," Jordan continues, her words spoken in a soft whisper. "I thought about asking you, but I figured if you wanted to tell me, you would." 

"I never told anyone."

Jordan shifts back to face her sister, laying one hand over the other on her pillow before resting her head there. "Were you just pretending it didn't happen?"

"It felt like... if I talked about it, it would become real: the fact that he didn't want to be with me,” she explains, already far enough down this path that it feels too late to turn back now. Tessa keeps her tone even, a façade of composure covering the truth of her feelings. “Part of me hoped it didn't really happen at all. There was a time back then when I genuinely thought maybe he would knock on my door – not even just call back, he would run over to the house – and tell me he felt the same way, that he'd been wanting to tell me forever, that it was about time. And I think I just wanted that hope to last.

"Now that we're back, there's a part of me that feels glimmers of it sometimes when he looks at me, and all I want is to hold onto that."

"You think talking to him will make that feeling go away? What if he just wants what you want?" Jordan asks, slow and careful.

“I _did_ want to talk.”

"And then you didn't anymore?" 

"Well, if it takes a person two years to come up with a response, it doesn't fill a girl with confidence, Jordan." Her words comes out sharper than she intends. 

"He was with someone else."

"You don’t need to defend him. I know. I know it wasn’t simple. I'm not angry with him. I'm not accusing him of anything. I love Scott.” And that’s when she starts to cry, just on the edge of “love”. She continues like she doesn’t notice it, like the wetness on her cheeks bears no connection to the words coming out of her mouth. “That's not conditional on him wanting to be with me. It's not conditional on him loving me back. I just don't want to lose this indefinable thing we have now. 

“Scott wants all of it,” Tessa sighs. “But he wants it without the label and then when shit gets real, he can’t do it. He can’t handle it. And he doesn’t see how much it bruises.”

“You don’t know he doesn’t want the whole deal,” Jordan counters, speaking with a delicacy that pulls Tessa back from the defensive. Her sister edges closer, so that their heads rest against each other as though to remind Tessa that she’s there to offer only comfort. “When he tried to talk to you about how he felt, you made him write it down. What if there’s an envelope in your nightstand that says everything you want to hear?”

“I don’t want to be his impulse decision.” 

“Sis. An impulse decision generally isn’t one that takes 20 years to make.”

Tessa doesn't break out into sobs. She doesn't make a sound. But she can't stop the tears that continue to leak from the corners of her eyes, swiping her hand across to them in an effort to hide their presence. 

Jordan pulls her into a hug, then draws back to place her hand on Tessa’s face. Close-up, they can see each other properly. The certainty in Jordan’s expression is unmistakable.

"Tessa, you and Scott belong together. It's so damn fated, it's freaky.

“I know that scares you. But it's all just a matter of time. He loves you with every bit of himself. The only reason you can’t see it is because you’ve never lived without it. You’ll never have to.” She pauses before adding, “He loves you, I’m telling you. Let it in.”

Tessa inhales a long breath at that and a peaceful silence falls between them.

The next morning, Kate comes to invite her daughters for a morning walk, only to find them lying in a loose embrace across Tessa’s bed, with the covers turned over where both of them have one leg poking out. She lets them sleep in.

A few days later, Tessa and Scott are reunited for the journey back to Montreal. She’s been wondering how he’ll be around her, worrying that they might at last have exceeded their baggage allowance. But then he steps out of the car and smiles warmly, stirring that familiar feeling deep in her gut. Then he runs. He runs towards her, not unlike the way he’d greeted her at the ice rink the previous Christmas, but this lacks any silliness. He looks so happy to be with her again that the reunion might just be worth the separation. 

It’s like an out of body experience, like she’s watching a film. It’s the kind of movie she would have begged her mom to let her rent from Blockbuster as a kid, begged and begged until Kate finally relented, only for Tessa to forget to return it. Only for it to gather dust on the top of her DVD player until, after a long day with Scott at the rink – a long day of being held but not seen, she’d get the disc out of the box and play it again just to indulge dreams of another life. One of those kinds of movies. 

An odd feeling overcomes Tessa in the moment of their reunion, as he sweeps her off her feet. However naïve it might be, however much it might ignore the dizzying highs and crushing lows of their history, in this moment of reunion, it feels as though they’ve come apart for the last time. He holds her like he’ll never let go and she finds herself believing it – finally.

She thinks about the end of their movie as it plays out. This is the scene that’s supposed to leave everyone sated in the imagination of a forever kind of happiness. In the fairytale, the boy and the girl run to each other in a moment of impulse and it relieves an hour and a half of romantic tension. And she feels that release inside his warm hug. But there’s more to talk about. There’s still little more than emotional duct tape holding her fragile heart together. That’s how she knows it’s real – no fairytale, no movie, no dream. That doesn’t mean they won’t get their own kind of happy ending. 

As she remembers the emptiness of their separation and its parallels to an earlier one, she knows something’s different now. He’s holding her so tight that the embrace feels how she feels: like she never wants to let go. It’s these actions, little clues in his eyes and his touch and his hold, that she believes most of all. Words will come later. Right now, he loves her and he’s missed her just like always, except it’s not just like always. This is new. This is it.

She feels the movement of his lips against her cheeks as he asks, “Have you been counting down how many days it is yet?” Their Olympic countdown now feels all the more pressing; no more extended breaks, all focus. Game on.

“I like to plan, Scott!” she says with playful outrage, pulling away from him to get a full look at his face, at the wry smile pulling at his lips.

“I know you do,” he replies, and it sounds as warm as if he'd said _I love you_. She blushes anyway, because of the soft lilt in his tone and the loving look in his eye. He holds her gaze longer than usual and she has to look away. "You know, I really missed this."

“Yeah," she agrees, reluctant to say too much.

"You don't know what you've got till it's gone."

“We were only apart for a few days.”

“Not quite what I meant, Tess,” he says, his voice full of all the love she’d been craving. And then he can’t resist pulling her into another full body hug. They stand flush against each other until time is forgotten. No countdowns, no stopwatches; this is it.

He’s running to her. She’s running to him. And all she wants is the crash. Whatever the consequences, she wants the crash. She’s ready for it now. It feels big and scary and unknown but with every day that passes, she feels less afraid.


	17. frisky business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a great news day, eh? At least we have Virtue and Moir. To anyone who's stuck with me this far, I hope you enjoy the latest from me...

After Tessa’s heart-to-heart with Jordan, it becomes clearer to her than ever that her talk with Scott won’t wait until after the Olympics. The big one. The one where they say all the things that can’t wait any longer. 

Except they have to wait.

When they get back to Montreal, the intense focus on the new programs means they barely have a second to think about anything else. High Performance Camp looms large and, much as personal developments might feel pressing, the competitive season is even more so.

But part of her wonders if he senses a change.

Jordan has her convinced that everything she wants is in her sights. She’s more relaxed around him now, more content under his touch than she’s ever been. Likewise, he’s more tactile than ever. She wonders if the separation changed things for him too.

When they were apart, everything felt so urgent and overwhelming. Now that they’re together again, they fall back into familiar rhythms they’ve spent 20 years perfecting. It becomes so easy – being around him, soaking up the aura of Scott Moir – to avoid the conversation, or at least postpone it (again). Because this version of Scott is a joy: loving and silly and warm and thoughtful and patient. And because he slots into her life so completely, the same way he had when they’d first settled in Montreal.

He barely sees the inside of his apartment after they come back from the break, instead preferring to permeate every square-inch of hers. It dispels any misconceptions about him needing to get away from her.

Scott seems to have stopped withholding any part of himself, instead choosing to accept the ambiguity of what they have and embrace its undefined potential. It quickly becomes apparent to Tessa that if she doesn’t stop him from cooking her dinner, or watching TV on her couch, or sleeping in her bed, or walking around her condo half-naked after showering in her bathroom, then he’s just going to go ahead and do it all.

Off the ice, it’s like he’s her boyfriend now, except without the label and without the sex. And while the label holds little appeal, the sex holds plenty. In fact, it’s becoming increasingly hard to ignore that small matter as practice for both dances progresses. Neither one of their new programs allow the sexual frustration in the rink to let up for a minute. It feels as though the charged practice sessions of their 2016/17 season were child’s play, some kind of warm-up for this: the main event. Perhaps that’s exactly what they were.

Little kisses have nothing on the tension that passes between them these days.

As they prepare for the scrutiny of Skate Canada’s High Performance Camp, both of them are aware that the short dance still needs a little extra love. They’ve poured endless hours into fine-tuning the free, while the short has been almost effortless in its process: a 70s rock medley that brings together all of the necessary technical elements inside a tidy three minutes. The steps seem to fit together intuitively as their coaches collaborate with them to develop the sequence, the movements bleeding into one another smoothly.

It’s hard work, of course, but the work’s working out.

There’s one small problem. The residing thought in Tessa’s mind whenever they practice the short dance is: _I want to fuck Scott_.

This has been an omnipresent news ticker running through her head for some considerable time now, usually in the context of grander aspirations for a shared future. Not usually in such base terms. Not usually so irrepressible, so primal, so overwhelming.

The problem is, when ‘Hotel California’ comes on and the choreography demands that she slides a leg between his, her hand holding his head against hers, she can’t help but think it’s the closest they’re ever going to come to fucking on the ice. It’s never going to happen, but sex is the only precedent for the sensation that ripples through her body as they dance this particular dance.

Their rhumba is all close contact and deep edges, and as she feels his body move in line with hers, the blades of his skates gliding in perfect parallel, a shiver runs down her spine that almost throws her off. His blades sink deep, sliding smoothly in line with her, moving with her. He knows where to be, instinctively, learnedly; he knows where she needs him and he catches her as she sinks down against him, her left leg hitched over his to bring them together.

Their faces touching, eyes wide open, they lock gaze and it’s all choreography, that’s all it is. But that look in his eye, _that_ isn’t. It’s Scott.

He holds her there for barely two seconds and it’s enough time for the fire of it to spread from one to the other. She doesn’t know whose spark sets it off; all she knows is the rest of routine, she’s aflame. Competitive pressures can only do so much to douse it.

The program’s not quite as fiery as Carmen, nor as playful as Prince. But it’s sultry. The simmering heat of the rhumba is about ready to turn the ice rink into a shallow pool.

It’s becoming almost comical the way each of their consultants and team members react to seeing it for the first time. It’s uncanny, the same consistent drawing in of breath. Usually followed by a sighed expletive. There’s some variation, of course. Sam bounces on the spot, his face lit up like a Christmas tree every time he watches a run-through, whereas her mother had been stock-still with her eyebrows raised to the sky. (And it takes a lot to shock Kate Virtue at this point.)

When they send a video clip to Mathieu to aid the costume ideas, it takes no one by surprise when he comes back with sketches that feature animal print designs.

With the dawn of the new season approaching, the team focuses on honing the routine to perfection. The choreography has come together quickly, but there’s more story to explore with it. “You can go deeper,” Marie-France says with insistent enthusiasm from only metres away, unaware she’s at risk of some third degree burns if she steps too close at the wrong moment. 

Tessa’s too much of a perfectionist to argue. Their coach is right, after all, even if things are teetering on the edge of danger. 

They run through it again and again, devoting their focus to nailing the finer details of this short dance. They examine the footwork, the mood, the connection, the chemistry rigorously with the team, and it’s that tireless, repetitious study of it that usually sucks it of genuine feeling – even if they are seasoned experts at conveying authenticity, no matter what.

This time, it sticks.

This time, the feeling doesn’t dilute.

The programs – both Sympathy for the Devil and Moulin Rouge – go pretty well when eventually High Performance Camp rolls around. Their professionalism prevents either program from turning into the frisky business they have occasionally (not too occasionally, but every now and again) devolved into during practice sessions. There’s work to be done, but the certainty of knowing they have the right programs, the right ideas moving forward means that they’re relatively content. 

Things don’t come to a head until their season opener: Autumn Classic International. It’s not the performance itself, but the practice. They’re relaxed, eager to show off the work of the summer and not yet under the eagle-eyed analysis of a judging panel. It’s only practice.

They breeze through the sequence she anticipates most – their heads pressing together without the release she all too knowingly desires – but it’s the transition into Santana that trips them up.

It’s him; surely, it’s him.

He comes out of his spin with a hand flat on her stomach. It moves from the side of her body across sheer black fabric towards the centre, settling only briefly before sweeping upwards to brush over her breasts. His spread hand is gone as quickly as it arrives, moving swiftly to mark out the line of her body. It stops at her hip, resting dangerously close to her ass as his left hand plants flat against her midriff.

As she feels the sharp tingle of electricity moving over her body with his touch, she’s completely unaware of her own movements. She’s unconscious of the way she arches back against him and of the way her own hand reaches behind her to pull him tight, brushing roughly through his hair. Her head turns so that his nose finds that spot that’s his against the back of her neck. But she doesn’t realize it. Not until the spell breaks.

They come apart, finding each other’s hands in an effort to ground themselves, in an effort to keep this train on its tracks. They manage to skate it off, not saying a word. They glide away to refocus and then come back together, rediscovering the choreography in perfect unison. She tries not to think too hard on the fact that _he definitely felt it too_. 

When the time comes to debut the program, they deliver.

They know how to use nervous energy to their advantage, even if this is some new brand of nervous energy they’ve never experienced before, so they find _it_ : the performance. They find that extra something that makes them Virtue and Moir.

79.96 marks the start of their final Olympic season. 

Tessa knows one thing for sure, though: at the rate they’re going, they’ll wind up in bed together before they even get to Skate Canada. _And maybe that wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world._

“This season’s gonna be different,” she tells him, matter of fact, once the competition wraps up. They’re examining the breakdown of their score with Marie-France and Patrice either side of them. Her words are a warning; it’s more for herself than anyone. An unbeaten season offers no guarantees and, ever the realist, she senses a momentum shift approaching.

“Yeah.” Scott takes her hand. 

Her eyes are looking up at him, wide open. “It’s gonna be a fight.”

“We’ll win,” he replies, like he’s finishing her thought, giving her a playful nudge in the arm. There’s an ease about him as he says it. It’s not naivety. They’ve been in the game too long for that. It’s sheer, unabashed belief in them.

Scott waits for her to smile and when she does, he gives her a fleeting kiss on the cheek, the kind he used to plant on her in kiss and cries from a different lifetime. He hovers a little, studying her face, before turning his attention back to the scores on the screen. He can’t possibly know that her skin tingles from his touch long after he’s drawn back.

Tessa blinks away a feeling. She tries to settle the familiar flutter of butterflies.

She can’t help but think back to what Jordan had said her with such profound and heartfelt conviction in her eyes. Her sister, the person she trusts most of all in matters such as these.

_“He loves you, I’m telling you. Let it in.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! (I promise never to take this long to get to the damn point again. Multi-chapter is no joke; I'm running home to one-shots when this is done, haha!)


	18. the hip

It’s their last day off before Skate Canada. With the rest of their schedule blocked out with every kind of practice and prep imaginable, this single day off has felt a long time coming. Despite the opportunity for a brief break from each other, Scott and Tessa make plans to go out for breakfast together.

He never shows up.

She’s so used to him bursting like sunlight into her condo to wake her up that when he doesn’t appear, she assumes that the time on her phone must be wrong. Or that somehow her tired brain is misreading it.

She drifts back to sleep for a while, dreaming of eggs benedict and almond milk cappuccinos and, yes, maybe Scott Moir across the table from her, his feet brushing against hers as he enthusiastically tells a funny story from back home. It’s one he’s had second-hand from his brothers so, naturally, it’s embellished with ridiculous details that can’t possibly be true. It’s the kind of moment she’s grown used to in her everyday, the kind that cures every pang of homesickness. Because home is this, _with him_.

When Tessa wakes up a second time, she feels worse. She feels groggy, her mouth’s dry and there’s a low-lying ache in the back of her head. She takes this as a sign she needs to get up and swiftly pulls back the comforter.

It’s only when she goes into her kitchen to get herself a sip of water that she notices the time. 10:45. She hasn’t slept past 10 since her last retirement-era New Years’. And Scott was meant to come by over an hour ago. It’s unlike him and, when she looks at her phone, there’s no explanation waiting for her. Not that he’s ever a particularly reliable texter.

Tessa decides to get dressed and head over to his place, eagerly savouring the opportunity to finally be the one delivering the wake-up call. She ignores the funny feeling that lies low in her stomach, the sense that something’s off. She ignores it right up until she picks up her phone again to head out the door and sees the push notification on her lockscreen.

It’s her news app. She’d kept meaning to turn off the alerts, but hadn’t quite got around to it. 

“Tragically Hip’s Gord Downie dead at 53,” reads the CBC headline.

When she arrives at his door barely two minutes later, she knocks a couple of times, the gesture more a nervous tick than anything, before unlocking his door with her own key. It doesn’t feel odd or intrusive; it feels more right than she has pause to think about in the moment.

To her great relief, she opens the door to find him there, right in front of her, sitting on the far end of his sofa. The news coverage is flashing up on the TV screen in front of him, though Scott’s hands are covering his face, rubbing his eyes as though he’s trying to wake from a nap.

“Oh, shit. Tess, I’m sorry. I just—“

He looks up at her, like he can’t quite speak. There’s something childlike in his expression, his eyes big and shining as his mouth hangs just a little open.

Sensing his self-consciousness, her eyes draw away from his to the TV in front of him. Justin Trudeau is there, tearing up as he says, “Gord was my friend, but Gord was everyone’s friend. Our buddy Gord, who loved this country with everything he had. And not just loved it in a nebulous, ‘Oh, I love Canada’ way. He loved every hidden corner, every story, every aspect of this country that he celebrated his whole life.”

As Scott drags in a long, rough sniff and wipes away the tears from under his eyes, Tessa sits down beside him. She nestles under the arm he has propped across the line of the cushion and holds him a while. One hand rests against his chest as the other one slides between the sofa and his body to rub his back in soothing circles.

“Sorry,” he says, clearing his throat as he shifts himself to perch on the edge of the couch. “I think I need to get some air or—”

She nods when he twists his head back to look at her. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, following it with a heavy sigh.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” she’s quick to assure him. Tessa inches forward to offer the comfort of her touch again and, as her palm moves slowly and steadily down his back once more, she finally feels him relax a little. Softly, her voice delicately dancing over every syllable, she says, “Why don’t I drive us somewhere? We can go for a walk or—”

“Tess?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we… Can we skate?” Scott looks her in the eye as he asks, and there’s vulnerability in his expression; he’s worried she might say no. Doesn’t he know by now that she can’t anymore? “I don’t mean practice, I just… I just want to skate with you.”

Tessa gives a single affirmative nod of the head. It’s restraint; she’s hesitant to let her own feelings come pouring out as he struggles to grapple with his own.

There’s a natural unison when they both stand at the same time, her hand finding his in the movement. She uses it to pull him a little closer, knocking against him in a light, playful gesture that draws a forced smile to his lips. _We’ll make it real_ , she thinks to herself. The steadier of the two of them, she knows from experience that the deepest comfort is that which they find in each other.

He reaches for his car keys before she swipes them from his hand. “My turn,” she insists, not looking back as she leads him out the door.

It’s a quiet drive. She decides not to turn on the radio for fear that the news bulletins will offer frequent reminders, and their typical car playlist isn’t well suited to the mood. Instead, it’s quiet. It’s silent but for the sound of the traffic around them, the light squeak of the brakes when she stops late (almost every time) and Scott’s restless fingers pulling at the cap of his water bottle.

When they get to the rink, they find Patch in his office. He’s sat at a laptop, a crease between his eyes as he studies the screen in front of him. It takes him a minute to notice them, but when he does, his expression brightens with a sudden smile, one that fades as the heaviness about their demeanours fills the room. Tessa then asks him for some impromptu ice time, explaining the situation as Scott sinks back. He’s unusually laconic, shifting awkwardly in the doorway before walking off without a word to find occupation watching some of the younger pairs run through their programs.

She meets him there eventually, and they lace up side by side – still without another word to each other.

When eventually they step onto the ice, Tessa watches Scott begin to drift out, his eyes down as he runs a hand through his hair. His body is rigid. She can see the tension as he rolls his shoulders slowly, taking in a long breath.

She moves out in big strides with deep knee bends to stretch her legs out, before circling back to him. Scott’s too lost in his own head to sense her presence until her arms envelop him from behind. This is _his_ move, his favourite way to playfully embrace her in the middle of practice. Now, though, she’s the one holding him.

He covers her hands with his own and leans back against her. 

Tessa feels his whole body sigh against hers and gives him a little extra squeeze. She lifts her head to rest her chin on his shoulder. “I love you,” she whispers. It comes as easy as breathing out.

Scott bows his head and closes his eyes.

Eventually, he moves out of her embrace to turn around and, holding both of her hands, pulls her gently towards him. He kisses her cheek once, pauses, and then showers her with a burst of soft little kisses across her face, never quite crossing the line. Never quite finding her lips.

She smiles up at him as his fingers toy with a loose lock of hair and, for a moment, he seems to smile in return, the tight, straight line of his lips curling up at the corners ever so slightly. It’s something close, at least. And then it passes, returning swiftly to a serious expression. Still, he absently runs a hand up and down her arm as if to reassure her that he’s okay – even if he can’t quite sell the lie. 

After a while, the ice begins to empty out. They find themselves the only ones left out there, and Tessa takes the opportunity to change the music. For Scott. For Gord. 

When she comes back to him, it’s as though he’s been on standby in her absence, only coming out of his daze when she places her hand on his shoulder. He turns, his eyes fixing on her with that funny old look he gives her sometimes – curiosity or wonder or confusion. And then she takes him by the hand and leads him to centre ice.

‘Long Time Running’ starts to play.

To begin with, they hold hands and skate. Like two teenagers on a date. Or like two little kids at the very start of a lifelong partnership.

It’s only on the song’s second play that they begin to dance. Neither one of them starts it off. They edge closer without a word, folding into a dance hold in the midst of a natural turn by the boards. 

And they’re dancing. Like old times. Like always. 

They dance for what feels like forever. It's a gorgeous forever that plays out like a dream that need never end, a comforting escape where it's only him and her, without threat of interruption.

If anyone else comes by, they don't notice.

They dance and it's nothing like practice. It's instinct, not choreography; it's a hug, not a hold. The only sound is the song, the only sight is each other. 

He whispers in her ear to suggest a lift and she lets him take her in his arms, following his lead until she finds herself inside a cradle hold. It's not unlike the first lift they ever learned, back when they were just kids and every touch drew out a full body shudder. The way she feels pressed up against him is a reminder that some things never change. But it’s a different kind of feeling that has every point of contact tingling like a burn.

Scott glides aimlessly with her in his arms, their faces pressed urgently together as her hand rests on the back of his head. She’s pulling him in. They’re too close to look at each other and too caught up to look anywhere else. She senses that he just wants to clutch her as tightly as he can, dancing around the ice like it’s his only other source of comfort, so she just holds on. He’s in his own world but he’s at least taking her with him. And she’ll go.

Tessa knows without a doubt in her mind that she’ll stay in this rink as long as he needs her to. Long after her muscles start burning, long after the world stops turning.

Eventually, he spins her out of their hold, letting her skates find the ice again before they turn together and then lower themselves to their knees. He leads the movement, but she doesn’t find it hard to follow, settling with him on the sharp, cool ice as their foreheads meet.

"Tess," he says as he leans forward, lips so close to her ear that she can feel his uneven breath teasing her skin. His cheek brushes against hers.

She pulls back to study his expression, catching the heaviness of his eyelids and the tightness of his jaw. She can see the way he's taking her in, looking at her so directly that it lacks any of the inhibition of politeness.

"Life's so fucking short," he says eventually, gruff and unsteady.

She falls against him in another hug. “I know,” is her muffled reply.

In the midst of their moment, they lose track of time. All she knows is that eventually the music goes back to another program – something fun and light, something he’d usually pop his shoulder to as they warm up – and Scott takes her by the hand, leading her away. _He’s got all he needed here._

After Tessa drives them home, she brings him up to her place, never needing to say, “ _Stay with me_ ,” aloud. Scott lets himself be led this time.

They don’t say a single word once they’re inside her condo, walking to the bedroom in synchronised strides. There’s an odd feeling of inevitability to it. There seems nothing at all strange, in the moment, to stripping down at either side of the bed until he’s in his boxers and t-shirt, until she’s grabbing nightclothes to change into.

She goes into the ensuite to wash her face, brush her teeth and put her pyjamas on. It feels surprisingly unsurprising when Scott follows her in, picks up the spare toothbrush and brushes his teeth beside her, his eyes only occasionally drifting from his reflection in the mirror to hers. And then he disappears again.

When she walks back into her bedroom, he’s waiting close to the centre of the bed, facing her side.

Tessa gets in, moving towards him until they’re lying there, the natural curve of their bodies lining up to form two perfectly parallel lines. Once she stills, with her back to him, Scott shifts to settle closer. Her big spoon. His arm wraps around her, his hand finding her stomach. There’s only the thin cotton of her camisole between them.

She knows they need to talk, knows it now more than ever, but it can’t be right now. So, until the moment comes, she’ll savour this. The very last of something.

“I think we should skate to The Hip, Tess,” she hears him say in a drowsy whisper, his breath tickling the back of her neck as he speaks.

She can’t argue with that. She thinks it might be the sweetest idea he’s ever had.

Tessa dips her head, tucking her chin tight to her chest. There’s a smile buried in it, one he doesn’t get to see. But she says, “Okay,” and so they do.

After that night, they begin going over steps that had previously been planned for another now-forgotten ballad. They shift them and shape them to fit this, The Hip, instead. They steal little pieces from every program, a lift from each Olympic free dance, and they put it all together in a few days, only refining it for its performance debut during the Skate Canada gala practice.

In the end, it might be her favourite exhibition program they’ve ever done.

In the end, Scott finds catharsis in the music.

She watches his mood lighten a little more with every run-through, becoming more and more himself again. Because this is Scott through and through: skating along a feeling, wearing his heart on his sleeve. It plays out across his face and she watches, effortlessly letting it flow through her body – from the tips of her fingers to the edge of her skate blades. 

It’s only when they reach the end of the dance, as he draws his face from hers in their final pose, that the weight of everything bears down again and again. It happens every time. There’s nothing light about the look she finds there. It’s dark and suffocating and it makes her stomach flip like nothing she’s ever known before.

 _It's been a long, long, long time running_. 

It culminates in the performance.

Skate Canada is energizing and triumphant, with the short dance shining as brightly as it ever has and SBs all around, but the gala proves to be their highlight. It’s a capital-M Moment. It belongs to them, and it belongs to Canada.

It’s supposed to be a one-time thing.

When they look at each other at the end, they both know they’re taking it all the way to the Olympics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for coming back for more if you're reading this! The encouraging comments left on previous chapters are so incredibly kind, and every single one of them has brightened my day. To everyone who's recommended this fic on Twitter, who's kudos'd and bookmarked it before even knowing how the resolution will unfold, who's sent me articulate and thoughtful feedback – you're all wonderful and it's meant a lot to see that happen at all! Thank you, thank you!
> 
> I'm working really hard to bring you more as soon as I possibly can. I just want to make sure that, having brought you along this far, the resolution is everything you hope for. I'm sure I can't please everyone but I'm trying my damnedest.


	19. more than gold

The breaking point is a funny thing.

When it comes, it’s not amid a fight or a fit of passion. It’s not lost in a dance, or in the exultation of victory. It’s small and ordinary. His eyes fix on her in a soft, warm gaze that feels like a burst of midwinter sun. And the smile on his lips is so loving, it’s like being wrapped inside a hug every time she looks his way. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it. It’s not Scott trying to push anything onto her. It exists inside the unspoken.

There’s such deep adoration in his eyes when he looks at her – and he keeps looking, glancing, _gazing_ – that she has to consciously push down the wave of feeling just to get through the interview.

It’s after Skate Canada, after NHK, as they look ahead to another Grand Prix Final and beyond. The Olympic dream is so close now, _so_ close. It’s close enough that the narrative is starting to form and the anticipation is starting to build.

In these moments, with all eyes on them, they turn inward and take comfort in each other. It’s no great hiding place when it comes to the vultures that circle with their questions and assumptions and accusations, but it’s shelter. The way he beams at her from the moment they sit down next to each other feels, in some ways, like just another grounding technique. She’s a safe place to land, despite the inherent uneasiness of any interview situation. It’s a reminder of the ‘us against the world’ mentality they’ve built together.

And then he says, “Letting down T would be the biggest thing. That’s something I couldn’t live with. When I looked, at the beginning of this year… What can’t I live with? And letting down Tessa was number one. We’ve done all this together. I want to end on a good note. I don’t see that happening, do you?”

She’s tripping over her words in her rush to reply, “Never, no. You couldn’t.” 

In a single moment, she knows what he can’t live with. And, with even more conviction, she knows what she can’t live _without_ : Scott.

It’s as though all at once, her house of cards has come crashing down. Because he’s everything to her. It’s not the first time she’s realized but it’s the first time she’s realized and accepted it, rather than ignoring the bright, shiny thing in front of her, rather than hiding it away in a drawer. And suddenly all she can think about is that drawer, and the possibilities it contains.

When, later, he stops in the middle of his sentence for no reason at all – a long pause as his brain appears to momentarily short-circuit, it feels undeniable. She holds her breath, waiting for release, until eventually he carries on. It lasts an eternity in her mind. It’s long enough for her to make a decision, long enough for her to start doubting that decision. But she doesn’t.

They can’t talk about it in the moment. There’s a television crew surrounding them, oblivious to the way her heart’s beating faster every time they catch eyes. They don’t know that something has shifted profoundly right in front of them. All that time honing her poker face has served her well for this moment right here.

They go home together afterwards, without a thought of how domestic that might seem to other people. Without a thought of how domestic it undeniably is. He’s quick to tell her that pasta’s on the menu for tonight – his favourite B2Ten-approved recipe, making a beeline for the kitchen as soon as they’re through her door.

“You don’t have to cook,” she calls after him. 

“I know.”

“I could—” He cuts her off with a look. She reconsiders and then says, “We could eat out.”

“Do you want to?” he asks with genuine care, halting the meal prep efforts to look up for her answer. It’s written all over her exhausted face. Before she can give a diplomatic response, Scott breezily says, “I got you, T.” Then he turns back to his newly claimed workspace.

There’s effortless familiarity in the way he moves around her home like it’s his. Tessa likes it. He never used to do this, never used to be so settled and at ease in her world. He starts washing up the plates by the sink before pulling out everything he needs from the cupboards – the ones she’s spent more time organizing than actually using. The way he inhibits her space without taking up room, it holds an intimacy she’s never known before. The thought of him ever leaving feels wrong.

Before she gets anymore used to this, she needs to know where he stands. Before she falls anymore in love, she needs to know she’s not been falling alone.

“I’m just gonna change,” she tells him, slipping away to her bedroom.

It’s hard not to wonder if they won’t end up here together in a matter of hours. It’s hard not to wonder if they’ll fall asleep spooning, like that’s just a thing one friend does with another friend. It’s hard not to wonder a lot of things as she steps into the privacy of her bedroom.

Tessa sits on the edge of her bed, her eyes immediately fixating on the nightstand. On top of it, there’s only a miniature succulent, a half-read copy of ‘A Gentleman in Moscow’ and a framed picture from their day out in Marseille during last year’s Grand Prix Final. It’s just a photograph of the twinkling Christmas lights along one of the streets they’d walked down arm-in-arm, but the memory it holds is so much more than anyone could know from looking at it. And when he comes into her bedroom, which he’s been doing more and more, even he won’t know its full meaning. He won’t know that it’s really a picture of him, of the day he’d unwittingly given her the best date of her life.  

As her gaze drifts towards the top drawer and her mind drifts towards its contents, Tessa hears the distant sound of Scott singing to himself in her kitchen. She can make out the words of an old Carly Rae Jepsen song they must’ve played in the car a hundred times. He probably has no idea that she’s listening as his voice ascends to a squeaky pitch, accompanied by the sound of him tapping a utensil to the beat of his song. From the quiet shuffling sound she can hear, it’s not hard to picture the scene: him sliding around in a dance, lost in his own musical moment as he tends to their dinner. If only she had the visual to go with it.

It’s this trivial moment of domesticity that gives her the final push to do it, to read his year-old letter. Her hand moves carefully to take out the envelopes, anxious not to make a sound, even though she knows no one’s listening.

His is there on top. It’s marked out with a definitive ‘T’ in a thick, black scrawl. Unmistakably his, just like her.

Tessa pulls the twine from around the two envelopes and slides his free, leaving her own letter inside the knot before putting that one away again. She’s left with the single ‘T’ envelope, the message she hopes will answer every worry and every hope she’s been accumulating for months. After taking in a deep, yoga-length breath, she slides the nail of her thumb underneath the seal of the envelope and tears it open. No going back.

She remembers how little time he’d taken to write it, as though he’d had the words stored up, ready. Tessa braces herself for a couple of lines. Barely anything. A couple of make-or-break sentences that have had a whole year of build-up, and how can anything live up to that?

It sits in her hand a while before she dares to unfold the page. When she does, she sees his short paragraph there. It says: “I came back because I love you, kiddo. I know I’ve messed up, I know I’ve confused you and I’m sorry. I love skating with you but it’s more than that. It’s about being with you. All I want is to be with you all the time and that’s not going anywhere (and the Olympics have already happened when you read this so, win or lose, just ask me again if you don’t believe me). I want you more than gold. You are the love of my life, T.”

He’s underlined the last sentence, like there’ll be a test later and this is the part she needs to memorize. Underneath, he’s signed an ‘S’, as though she might be left wondering who wrote it. As though there could ever be anyone else.

 _Well, shit._  

Tessa perches on her side of the bed with her hand gripped to the edge of the mattress like it’s the only thing keeping her fixed to solid ground. With the letter clutched tight in the other hand, she sits there for a while contemplating it, her eyes closed in an attempt to stop the tears from flowing. She waits for her breathing to steady before reading it again.

When Tessa walks back into the kitchen, Scott doesn’t even turn around at the sound of her footsteps before saying, “Listen, I might as well own up to this now because I know nothing gets past you – I put a few mushrooms in the sauce. I know they’re not your favourite, but they’re good for you. High in fibre, vitamins… I’m trying to keep you healthy, kiddo.”

As he stirs the sauce in the pan, he glances over his shoulder to give her a jovial smirk. It’s that ‘you know I’m right’ look, oblivious to what’s coming next.

“I thought you were getting—”

He catches sight of the letter in her hand as his whole body turns to face her, a look of shock replacing his reliably warm smile. Shock or fear or nervous anticipation. And that’s when it starts to feel real, the talk between them now unavoidable.

It’s a minute before she can speak, before her voice finds her. And then she softly asks, “Why didn’t you say something before? Why did it take you two years to tell me? When it was too late.”

“You read it.” It’s unlike her, so unlike her. She can see him calibrating the revelation, struggling to fathom this impulsive version of her that’s standing in front of him.

“I’m sorry. I know it was my idea and—and—”

He shakes his head, dismissing her apology with insistent reassurance. “No, I wanted you to read it, T. I wanted to tell you myself.”

“We shouldn’t do this now, I know, but I just don’t… understand. You don’t love me like that. I mean, sometimes it feels like you do,” she admits, ignoring the tears welling in her eyes, her brows knitted in adamant confusion, “but then when I gave you the chance to tell me, you didn’t take it. You ignored me. I thought if I said how I felt…”

“I listened to that voicemail so many times. I wanted to call you so many times. That message was like a homing signal. It’s how I got myself here. But, T, I was a mess back then.” His voice comes out cracked and broken now, a pleading desperation running through every word. His hand settles over his heart as he speaks. In the background, she can hear the sound of his tomato sauce sizzling as the pan starts to overheat. (Scott ignores it.) “You didn’t deserve to be cleaning up after my mess. I don’t want anyone holding you back, especially not me.”

She’s staring at him, confounded.

“I’m not good enough for you at the best of times and that was… far from.” He gives a joyless laugh at his reference to unwelcome memories, shaking his head with his eyes fixed on the floor tiles. “And you didn’t know. You didn’t know the half of it because I didn’t want you to know. You deserved so much better.”

A sharp crease forms between her eyes as she replies, “Not good enough? Scott, you’re—there isn’t _anything_ better than you.” She doesn’t plan it, the words just rush out with quiet urgency, but it’s just another one of those laws of the universe for Tessa; sky is blue, earth is round and this is just another fact of life. The way it comes bursting out without a thought surprises even her, the honesty of it prompting panic that manifests as tears. 

“You deserve someone who knows who they are and what they’re gonna do with their life. And when we skate, it makes perfect sense but when we stopped, it was—what did I have to offer? I had to prove it to—“

“You never had to prove anything to me, Scott.”

“—to myself. I had to know I wasn’t gonna let you down again.”

“So, what changed?” she asks, curious rather than accusing. “You went from not picking up the phone to suddenly wanting so much." 

“What changed?” he repeats, scoffing at the scale of her question. “Everything.”

She stares at him, waiting to understand.

“When we skate, it’s like… we’re _together_. You’re my partner, my equal. I know who I am again. And I just… wanted to have everything I ever dreamed of, just for a minute, before it was all over.”

“And what about after?”

He looks away.

“You never thought it could work beyond this,” she realizes aloud, and it feels like she’s had the rug swept out from under her. “ _That’s_ why you didn’t want us to wait.”

“You’ll wake up one day and realize—”

Before he can say another word, she’s insistently shaking her head at him. Whatever the end of that sentence is, she doesn’t want to hear it. “No,” escapes as a whisper riding on the wave of a sob.

“You’re gonna have this grand old life, T. You’re destined for big, big things.” There’s a wistful smile on his lips at the thought of it, as he absent-mindedly gestures to the sky with a sauce-covered wooden spoon in-hand. “And I want all those big things for you. It’s just… not me, is it? And if I… go back home and coach little kids, earning peanuts and avoiding stuffy events, becoming that guy who used to be somebody, is that gonna be enough?”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” she asks, concern etched on her face as she moves closer. She gets so close, he leans back just a little before feeling the poke of the panhandle behind him.

Scott gives a bashful shrug, a barely perceptible twitch of the shoulders, as he turns his face away.

”This whole time I’ve been so scared it’s not really real for you. You were only ever—it was only when we were competing…”

“You’re scared it’s not—” His question cuts off in disbelief, staring her down like he can see into her soul. He moves to her, abandoning the spoon to hold her to him like they’re Jack and Diane again, her arms around his neck, their foreheads pressed together. When he speaks, it’s soft but firm with conviction. He simply says, “If it’s not real, what have we been fighting all this time? It’s fucking real, Tess. I know because I’ve been trying to pretend it’s not every day for the last 20 years. And I’m fucking terrible at it.”

She finds herself unable to argue with that and a burst of relief escapes her in a laugh, tears tumbling out at the same time.

His eyes instantly light up at the sight of it. 

“We don’t have to do anything now, make any decisions. I can just be in love with you and cooking mushrooms you don’t want in your kitchen, and you can just… think things over, eh?” he suggests in the midst of an extended silence that falls between them, his voice so gentle that she finds herself helpless, utterly helpless. 

There’s something fragile about him, about how much he wants her. It seems to amplify the more time passes; Tessa can feel the electricity running through him. There’s a darkness in his eyes, a restlessness about his hands, a sober expression in lieu of a boyish smile. She can see him trying to pull himself back again, trying not to overwhelm her. In an attempt to avoid fixing his heavy gaze on her, Scott turns to busy himself with stirring the contents of the saucepan once more. With his back to her, he quietly adds, “I do love you, you know. And I understand why you might not trust me with your heart anymore, but you’ll always have mine.”

Tessa worries at her lip, biting down hard to maintain her composure.

She places the envelope and the letter down on the counter beside him, somewhere between the cheese grater and the chopping board. What’s written doesn’t matter now anyway, not as much as what remains unwritten between them.

She places a hand flat against his back.

Without a word, it commands him to turn around again. Scott inhales a long, deep breath, his body puffing out against her touch, and then he turns the heat off on the stove before facing her.

“Besides,” Scott starts, a false breeziness to his voice all of a sudden – and it’s as though he’s compelled to keep talking, for fear of what happens inside the silence. “We’ve got an Olympics to win. This probably isn’t the time to take any risks.” She can tell he’s repeating the tired old words that he’s been spinning in his head. Probably since this comeback plan started. Since that day they sat across the table from each other with two coffees between them.

It emboldens her to step forward.

“But you want me more than gold,” she reminds him in a quiet, careful tone, giving a slight nod of the head in the direction of the letter. “Right?”

Tessa moves closer again, reaching up to his face, her weight shifting onto the tips of her toes and her intentions made clear. But he withdraws, his hand wrapped around her forearm, pulling her away.

“Don’t,” Scott resists, barely above a whisper. “Not unless you really want this.”

The intensity of it is so sharp, she doesn’t dare breathe. It would only come out in a sigh — audible and obvious. Instead, her breath holds in her mouth. Exactly where her heart is.

She’s studying his eyes, all the fear and the hope locked in this look keeps her from breathing as they stand on the precipice of their certain something. The words don’t come. Not _sorry_ , for the almosts and the takebacks and the unsaids. Not _I love you_ , for all of it, for the good and the bad that’s tied them together so tight that they can barely breathe. Not _I do_ , because it’ll take more insistence than that, than words. And, besides, those words come later. 

She knows that the moment is now. She knows that if she closes that gap between them, she won’t be able to run away from this – not after their lips touch, not as they catch their breath, not when she wakes up tomorrow morning. If she closes the gap, there won’t be a reset button. He won’t be able to let her go, not without more pain than she could ever bear to bring him. And all of that is running through her mind in the heavy pause hanging between them. She draws out every second she can to muster enough belief in herself that she deserves him, that she can love him the way he needs her to, that this thing has a damn good shot at forever. That’s the weight of it.

When Tessa takes another step closer, firmly setting both hands on his face, and pulls him into her lips, that is the commitment she makes. It’s a tender invitation that offers all the encouragement Scott needs.

After 20 years of chaste pecks, the passion of their first real kiss comes as a shock. It's over a decade's worth of unresolved sexual tension uncapped, spilling out from one to the other with great urgency. His hands are in her hair, sliding down her waist, palming her ass. She’s too lost in the feeling of it to keep track. And Tessa returns his fervent enthusiasm with plenty of her own, moving her hands over every part of him with joyous abandon.

“I want this,” she manages to tell him breathlessly between kisses. “I want you.”

Scott pulls back to look at her.

“You—" 

“Yes.” She smiles again, her eyes still sparkling with tears. "Of course I do."

He looks, just for a nanosecond, like he might cry too, but his eyes roam her face and any tears are blinked away. He tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear carefully, and then his tender gaze moves to meet hers once more. He closes his eyes and bows his head, leaning forward until their foreheads find each other. Her thumb softly caresses the line of his jaw, grounding him the way she’s always known how to.

Scott takes in another deep breath and then kisses her again, firm and hard and like he can hear a bomb ticking. And then, when he realizes they have all the time they need, he softens, lips parting to deepen the kiss.

They savour it. They savour this new beginning and every new possibility.

After a while – not that either one of them has any inkling of how much time’s passed – she pulls herself away long enough to look at him, _really_ look at him. At last, there’s nothing between them. Everything is laid bare: desire, fear, truth, love and love and love. And there he is. Right in the middle of all of it, everything. Right where he belongs.

When she says, “I’m in love with you,” what had seemed so complicated for so many years suddenly feels so incredibly simple.

His hand is on her cheek, holding her hair back as he studies her expression. There’s no hint of impatience in his eyes. His thumb sweeps slowly across her cheekbone and the trail of it tingles along her skin. The temperature of the room changes quickly. The way he looks at her makes her feel naked. She hears herself swallow. There’s a moment when she’s looking at him and she knows, knows without a doubt, how this night ends.

She can feel a faint tremor in his hand as it sweeps up her arm delicately.

He’s not her best friend anymore, the one she knows better than he knows himself. He’s unknowable. His eyes are dark, lids heavy and unblinking; her eyes are wider, open, daring. She’s daring him to do it, just do it, just press her against the countertop and take everything he’s ever wanted. When he touches her, her skin tingles just there while the rest of her body turns to dust. He always did know how to touch her. She knew she’d be undone if he ever used this particular talent against her – and, in truth, he’s had plenty of moments. But now she’s working with him, twisting herself to guide his hand across her body. 

His hands move to her breasts, cupping them to finally cross a new, fast-disappearing line. He keeps his eyes fixed on hers. Watching for her reaction, daring her to blink. She doesn’t. Instead, she tries to hide a satisfied smirk, but the only way to do it is to pull him in for another deep, languid kiss.

As they press closer, Tessa feels his hands move to her waist before smoothing down her back. She smiles against his lips as he squeezes her ass cheeks with both hands before lifting her off her feet. It brings her flush against him, her legs clamping around his body for stability. As his hands squeeze tighter, she shifts closer still. Close enough that, as she feels him there between her legs, the involuntary moan that escapes her doesn’t go unnoticed.

They lose themselves inside the rabbit hole of another kiss, deepening it as Scott carries her to the bedroom she’s just come back from. He doesn’t need to stop and look around to get his bearings. He knows this place. He knows every square-inch of it. Blindly, he carries her off and their kiss only breaks as he lays her down on the bed. The bed that’s theirs, really; at least, it’s about to be.

“Oh, shit!” Scott says suddenly, interrupting the mood as he claps a hand to his face before running out the door. 

She pulls herself up onto her elbows to look through the doorway. No sign of him. She can distantly hear quick footsteps but waits, half-upright, for him to return. 

“Thought I’d left the pasta on!” he explains, panting, as he bursts back into the room, throwing his shirt off on the way to her. She can’t help but burst out laughing, her whole body shaking with the giggles until he cuts her off with another kiss. “You could’ve made a start on getting these off,” he says, still breathless, pulling her top over her head before throwing it recklessly, as she starts unbuttoning her pants.

They make quick work of undressing each other, appreciative glances swiftly replaced by grateful touches that mark out the lines of each other’s muscles with care. Scott moves his body over hers, sweeping her up in a full-body kiss with tongues and hands roaming over every inch of each other. He shifts his knee against her and, instinctively, she makes room for him to slide between her legs, lets him fall perfectly into place. They move as one to the middle of the bed and it’s strange how natural it feels, as though it’s not the first time at all, but another well-rehearsed dance of theirs. They vacillate between tenderness and passion, the ebbs and flows of their rhythm finding an effortless synchronicity.

When Tessa gazes at him in an effort to ground herself inside this impossible moment, holding Scott’s face in front of hers as he thrusts slowly inside her, his eyes are bold and without evasion. He’s never looked at her like this before; no one has. If he had, they’d never have made it 20 years. Never. Because the filter’s gone, the one that softens his edges and blanches the colour. The intensity of his gaze heightens the pleasure that seizes her whole body, stirring enough trust that she wholly gives herself over to his affection. His generous, attentive, unwavering affection.

Scott only breaks eye contact to bury his face in her neck, pressing kisses to sensitive skin as her hand combs through his hair to hold him there, in that spot that’s long been his. Muffled but unmistakable, she hears, “I love you” one more time.

The physical act of love makes her feel like every dance they’ve ever shared before has been unfinished. And she hadn’t known until now.

When he’s inside her, it’s ecstasy. And nothing – not a single spectacular victory – compares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I just wanted to thank you again for reading this. And yes I know I'm tedious, but I genuinely never expected anyone to read it and it still shocks me how many people have. I really sincerely hope you liked this chapter and if you didn't I'm really sorry, and I'll go and live in a cave forever now. xoxo


	20. the romantic part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's fluff. It's just fluff. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

She rests her head against his chest, listening for his heartbeat and finding comfort in its steady rhythm. The aftershocks of pleasure are still pulsing through her body, and she’s lying with one leg caught between his, ragged and sated.

“You know—” Scott starts, gazing down at her lying across him.

“No!” Tessa reaches her hand up to cover his mouth quickly, leaving him looking a little affronted. It’s no deep wound, nothing that can’t be appeased by one glance in her direction, and she watches his eyes betray his faux offence. 

“What?” she hears him reply, muffled against her palm. And then he kisses it.

“You’re gonna give me a line. Don’t spoil it,” she says, her cheeks lifted and her eyes shining in a coy smile she can’t fight. 

“Will you just—” He pulls her hand away with only a little play fighting, having to catch her other hand before it flies up. “I was just gonna say,” he pauses to lean forward and lightly catch her lips in a kiss, still holding both of her hands, “that… I used to think that winning the Olympics was the best feeling in the world.” Scott laughs to himself, a wistful expression on his face. “Until you kissed me.”

“See, you’re giving me a line,” she says, shaking her head like it’ll shake away the tears that, despite her best efforts, she can feel rising to the surface. It comes out soft and delicate, exactly the way his words make her feel.

“It’s the truth!” 

“You’re such a sap,” Tessa tells him, laughing.

“I’m allowed to be sappy today.”

Something about the look in his eye as he says it, speaking more tenderly than she’s ever heard before, takes her breath away. She’s looking up at him and it feels like her first day in heaven, it feels like a contentment she’s never known before. There he is: her past, her present, her future, her whole damn life. There he is. Just where he should be. So, instead of teasing, she matches the delicate cadence of his words with her own, replying, “You are.”

“I love you,” he whispers to her then. And it’s different. It’s as quick and effortless as a goodnight, rolling off the tongue like he’s going to say it just like this every night from now on. He punctuates it with a quick, firm peck on the lips and she says it back to him just as easily, before they shift down in the bed together to fall asleep.

The next morning, Tessa wakes up before her alarm for maybe the first time in her life. She shifts restlessly as she starts to stir, eventually stretching out to wake herself up. The movement of it causes her legs to bump his, a sudden reminder of the night before; flashes of it, of their bodies moving together like they never have, start running through her mind. And then she settles into his embrace, shuffling herself backwards until she’s flush against him, their bodies fitting together like two matching spoons – perfect equals, formed just for each other.

Scott’s arm moves to encase her, lying across her chest possessively as he kisses the curve of her neck in that sweet spot he’s claimed for himself, exposed as her hair falls back against the pillow.

“Morning,” she says, groggy.

“Morning, T,” he whispers back.

“Mmmmwhat time is it?” she moans, shifting her ass back against him.

“The alarm’s not for another 15 minutes.”

Tessa twists to face him, her hands sliding around his neck. It’s only then that she opens her eyes fully, waking up at last to see him there beside her. His eyes – bright and adoring, with faint creases at the corners that hint at the beginnings of a smile – are scanning her face, taking in every freckle with patient appreciation. She would normally feel self-conscious, but it’s Scott and he’s seen every version of her by now; a little mascara residue from the day before, a few blemishes on her complexion aren’t going to be enough to deter him.    

He’s most beautiful like this: scruffy and sleepy and soft. His hair is a disheveled, fluffy mess that’s really just demanding to be stroked, and her hands move to gently comb through the mop of it in affectionate strokes. She shifts a little closer, her leg sliding between his, and catches a hint of relief in his reaction.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Little while,” he says, gazing in that way that makes it hard to breathe. 

He leans forward to kiss her. What starts as a peck quickly deepens, his body lining up with hers before she draws back.

“Oh, morning breath.” Her expression contorts with an exaggerated grimace.

“Don’t care.” He kisses her lips again and then begins to kiss all over her face, a protective hand holding her cheek as she squirms just a little. She can’t suppress her laughter and he holds her tighter against him.

When he stops and draws away again, resting his head back on the pillow as they both look up at the ceiling, Scott cautiously asks, “How do you feel?”

Tessa turns over to look at him and gives a shy shrug. “I don’t know. 20 years is a lot of build up. I really thought we’d be... better,” she says, biting her lip as she teases out every word. A look of outrage breaks across his face and he turns over in the bed to pin her down. She wears a playful grin as she carries on, giggling away as he tickles her, “Little anti-climactic in the end, eh?”

She can’t admit that teasing is all she has now because any earnest reply she could give him would be overwhelming. She would hold his face in her hands and weep in relief, relief that she doesn’t have to settle for anything less than her wildest dreams.

Scott doesn’t force the question. Instead, he takes up her challenge. He moves his weight over her and kisses his way down her naked body as she happily lies back and lets him.

His hands move over her legs like he’s memorizing every inch of them, like he’s worshipping every inch of them. She lifts one to his touch, prompting him to trade the placement of his hand with a kiss to her inner thigh.

“I love these legs,” he says, a half-moaned drawl of a comment. One without a thought.

“I used to hate them so much,” Tessa confesses, her eyes watching him savor every touch of her body that she allows him. His hand glides down the back of her leg to her calf: toned and hard and _strong_. It settles there, his palm molding perfectly over the smooth curve of it.

“I won’t have that.” He follows it with another kiss, this time to her knee. “These are gold medal winning legs. World record breaking legs.”

She can’t help but beam at that. He waits for it, in fact. He looks up from where he’s lying across her lower body and waits to see a smile. Scott doesn’t smile back. His face is deeply serious as his hands run up the lines of her hips, eventually stopping to bring her down towards him.

It’s as he’s burying his face in the warm apex of her legs that Tessa considers that perhaps she might be a morning person after all. As though on a mission to unequivocally disprove her teasing about their so-called anti-climax, it doesn’t seem to take long at all before his tongue is bringing her to the edge of an orgasm. With her legs hooked over his shoulders, he diligently draws out that sweet release like he’s got a point to prove or a competition to win, fingers and tongue working in tandem.

It’s as she’s riding out the wave of pleasure and relief that a cacophony of noise erupts from both of their phones. The sounds of the marimba tone and ‘Gangsta’s Paradise’ crash against each other in the background of their embrace, hampering the moment completely. 

“We’ve gotta get up,” she moans – half in frustration, half in satisfied relief.

They roll apart, both reaching in different directions to silence the two alarms.

“First time I can remember not wanting to in a long time,” Scott admits. He kisses her again and it’s one that that stirs the butterflies in her stomach, one that feels so natural it’s almost mundane. There’s nothing special about this kiss, but the very fact that it isn’t one-of-a-kind makes her heart burst. Maybe there are thousands of these just waiting for her, just waiting to brush against her lips with soft and gentle certainty. 

He gets out of bed with everything on display, his bare ass taunting her with every step. She’s admired his muscular back plenty of times before – from broad shoulders that have been honed over a lifetime to perfectly hold the weight of her, to the ripples of muscle sculpted like marble that mark out hours of training. But now it’s a full picture. Pert and firm and impossible to ignore, that ass brings back vivid memories of last night, of her hands on him as he’d moved inside her. Even though he’d only moments earlier had his mouth on her sex, the sight still makes her whole body blush. She can’t look away, and when he glances back over his shoulder, she watches a smirk appear on his face as she realizes just that. Tessa shakes her head, but her smile is irrepressible.

As he starts pulling up last night’s boxers, she finds herself thinking aloud, “You know, we’re never gonna be in better shape than we are now. Or at least, than we will be in February. It’s really weird to think about.” 

“Take it all in now, T,” Scott replies – _ridiculous man_ , turning with his hands on the back of his head, posing just for her. He’s blushing as he does it, his neck suddenly a deep pink colour, unable to quite carry off the false swagger he might have been going for.

Tessa throws one of the pillows straight at him, and he’s forced to think fast, catching it with both hands. As soon as his face relaxes from the surprise of it, he’s back to gazing at her as she sprawls out across the entire width of the bed.

“Are you getting up this morning?”

“I’ll get out of bed if you make breakfast,” she offers, yawning over half the words.

“You’re gonna have to cook for yourself now, kiddo,” he tells her with a cocky shrug that immediately gives away his play-acting. She’s seen it before in the midst of their ‘Sorry’ choreography, but she’ll play along. 

“What do you mean by that?” Tessa asks as she draws back the covers to drag herself out of bed.

“Well, I don’t have to put the moves on anymore, eh?” he replies, adding a silly shoulder shake at the mention of his so-called ‘moves’. Much to his disappointment, Tessa doesn’t even glance up for a look, instead focusing on the contents of her drawers in search of underwear.

“ _That_ was your move?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been trying to seduce me with your cooking for _two years_?” She can’t help but laugh at the thought. All those dinners, perfectly prepared to suit their highly detailed, ever-evolving meal plans.

“It worked, didn’t it?” he points out, his arms wrapping around her from behind as she finishes pulling a sports bra over her head. As Tessa looks up at the mirror she’s facing, he gives her a self-satisfied smile before dropping a kiss onto her shoulder.

“I think that depends who you ask.”

“I thought I was asking my girlfriend,” he says, a hint of daring in his eyes as they both look at their reflection. “You are, right?”

Tessa laughs bashfully at his question, her head dropping so that her hair falls over her face to cover the blush. “Sounds so… small. It doesn’t feel like that quite covers it.”

“What should I call you then?”

She spins on the balls of her feet to face him, hands locking as her arms wrap around his neck to hold him close. “Tessa,” she says shyly.

“You’re my Tessa?”

“I’m your Tessa,” she affirms, and for a long beat they just look at each other in close-up; it’s still and silent, but manages to say everything that needs to be said. It’s one last look as they stand together on the brink of a new chapter. “Thank you for waiting for me.”

“ _You_ waited for me, T.” The way he flips from their flirty repartee back into sincere, into her steadfast, devoted Scott, is effortless. “And I’m sorry it took me so long to get my shit together.”

“I’m proud of you, you know. And I really… I love you, even when you’re a mess.” She tenderly strokes the side of his face before adding, “What’s your mess is mine now too, remember.” 

They soak up a last kiss, knowing that they’re fast running out of time for canoodling, and then Tessa whispers, “Scott, can this just be ours for a little while?”

“You don’t want to tell anyone?” 

Her forehead resting against his, she barely needs to move for him to feel the shake of her head. “I want us to have a little longer inside our bubble before everyone else has their two cents. This is ours: yours and mine. Can’t it just stay that way?”

“Okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“If it’s what you want, it’s what I want,” he confirms for her, pulling away so that she can see him smile his approval. “Besides, sneaking around could be fun. I’m the world’s worst actor, though.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

He breathes out a sigh as they come apart, with Tessa quickly reaching for the appropriate combination of Adidas and Adidas for the day. Scott only has the clothes from the day before, so says, “Right, I need to drop by my place for clean kit but I’ll come back to pick you up.”

She nods. “You should pack a little extra too. For tomorrow. And the day after.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” And she has to stop herself from telling him to pack it all, every damn thing he owns. They’ve got time, she reminds herself. All the time they need. 

She lets him slip away on the promise of a hasty reunion, and carries on prepping for their morning at the rink. It’s not even 6:30 when she comes into the kitchen – scene of the crime – and finds poached egg on toast waiting for her on the countertop. Nearby, there’s evidence of the pan from last night sitting on the draining board, freshly cleaned.

When she goes to eat her lovingly-made breakfast, there’s a note next to the plate that reads, “I’ll be right back because WE’VE GOT AN OLYMPIC MEDAL TO WIN!! Enjoy your eggs. Love, Scott.”

It turns out, the romantic part comes easy when at last it comes. In some ways, that’s what makes it not worth talking about. It’s as easy as breathing and no one asks them to explain that.

When they arrive at Gadbois for another day’s training, Marie-France and Patrice don’t notice a thing. What’s there to notice? Nothing’s changed. Not really. They go over adjustments to the programs for the Grand Prix Final, rehearsing their steps with the same focus they’ve always had and a renewed enthusiasm. Bright, beaming smiles burst out when they hear, “ _Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place_ …” She feels herself moved by its truth, by the clarity of hearing him sing along to it, and it feels like her arms stretch wider, edges move deeper, lifts go higher.

_Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soz, huns. Got a bit distracted by the best butt in the biz halfway through this. Please forgive. A few butt tabs were open during the writing process and we’ll just put that down to diligent research.
> 
> P.S. I just saw a Twitter thread comparing VM fics to alcoholic drinks and whoever said mine pairs with champagne, your next drink's on me :') THAT'S REALLY CUTE, thank you.


	21. a lot like winning

Scott has all but moved in by the time they leave for Japan, leaving his condo as little more than glorified storage. His fridge is empty but for a tub of out of date butter, an empty salad bag and a rock solid, green-speckled block of cheese. Every material item that means anything to him has migrated to Tessa's place – Maple Leafs jersey, kit bag and skates, several different tubs of hair gel that betray a serious lack of brand loyalty, the handwritten letter from his niece detailing exactly what he might want to get her for Christmas (specifying very carefully, “the _blue_ one, not the yellow, the blue one” with several lines underneath the word ‘blue’ – and Tessa’s already helped him find a store online that sells the blue, so he’s filed it away in his newly claimed nightstand now). 

For Tessa's part, there's a whole two drawers cleared out to make room for his stuff, with the rest scattered between the laundry pile and the spare room. 

When they pack for the Grand Prix Final, their luggage rests side by side on the end of the bed. Both suitcases lay open, one with every item neatly folded and rolled for economic use of space; the other is a haphazard jumble, with new creases forming with every passing second. Despite the stark contrast, each is still peppered with hints of the other. There's the electric toothbrush she'd bought him on a whim, the lucky penny he's slipped into a side pocket, the perfume that won't quite fit in her case.

Once they're full, once Tessa's stopped vacillating about what she needs to take, once she's checked her list and checked it again, Scott uses all his bodyweight to get both suitcases closed. After he’s done them both and held out for a celebratory high five, Tessa takes no small amount of pleasure in pointing out the wash bag he’d forgotten to put in there, giggling as she watches him open then close his suitcase all over again.

Despite her amusement, all is forgiven quickly as she moves into his arms and gives a silly, sloppy kiss to his cheek. “Excellent work,” she says, resting her temple on his shoulder as they look down at the bulk of their luggage.

They arrive in Nagoya and of course there's still something Tessa meant to bring but forgot about: those particular earrings she’d picked out for the free dance, the more subtle of two options, the pair that suddenly feel undeniably perfect for the occasion. The realization comes just as soon as she unzips the bag. "I knew I'd forgotten something," she laments.

"You always think you've forgotten something," Scott points out, the softness of his tone preventing one of those cursing glances that he might otherwise have earned himself. This narrow escape dares him to tease: "I guess your list wasn't totally foolproof after all, kiddo." 

She looks back at him, thoroughly unimpressed. "My list is the only reason you have boxers to wear, _kiddo_. In fact, I'd like you to remember the number of times my lists have bailed you out before you say one more word." 

He comes up behind her to wrap his arms around her shoulders, dropping a kiss to the back of her head. He doesn't see her roll her eyes, nor the way her face relaxes with an easy smile. 

"No funny business till we're home," she warns him, and maybe that's what sows the seed in his mind. Maybe that's what feeds his insecurity. 

For now, he just whispers, "But I can still kiss my beautiful partner, can't I?" And then he waits for her to spin in his arms and kisses her again. 

It turns out that Tessa's neglected studs set the tone for the trip, though. 

It's small things. Small things not quite going to plan. And it's all in the details. It's the details that end their winning streak. A little too much gusto here, a mistimed step there. There's more to it than that – of course there is, their short dance score removes any hint of doubt about it – but that's all they have control of. If they've learned anything, it's that they can only control what they can control. 

The first day brings with it a lowballed score, earning transparent discontentment on the faces of Scott and Patch, as Tessa quashes her own response to little more than a side-eye glance at her partner. No point. There’s no point. _What can Patch do, caught in the middle?_ (Even if, in truth, the middle is not quite the best description for Patch’s position anymore.)

Scott just keeps saying, “We skated well. We skated well.” It’s as though he’s trying to reassure himself, to not let the feeling of it be undermined by the numbers.

They try not to reflect too hard on their frustrations, at J.F.’s urging, hoping instead to let the free dance pick up the slack. Managing frustration never has been Scott’s strong suit, however. It’s a frustration rooted in his fear of disappointing her or letting her down; she can tell that much from the restlessness of his hands whenever she lets them go and his lack of eye contact, but there’s a cruel irony in its power. Scott’s anxiety about the inevitable takes hold, festering just enough to prompt a slight trip in the free dance. A week later, J.F. will insist it's the best thing that could've happened, the ideal test for them psychologically to prepare them for their biggest moment of all. They'll rediscover the composure they need to deal with curveballs, but it's an unwelcome jolt of reality in the moment. 

They’re gracious on the podium, composed in the press conference. She’s relieved not to find herself with the microphone, drained by the whole week. Scott takes the opportunity to defend their performances. He’s cautious with his words, steadily insisting, “We’re not gonna hang our heads,” and she feels relief at that. _We’re not._  

There’s more relief still as he places the microphone down and turns to her, stroking her leg before finding her hand. It’s the first time she’s felt like smiling since they’d received their scores.

They spend the evening with Patch and J.F., earning the priority of their attention by virtue of their loss. _Every cloud._

It’s quiet between them now, quieter than normal.

He keeps glancing over at her and she can’t quite gauge the meaning of it. Instead of sitting beside her with a reassuring hand on her thigh, he’s opted to lean against a wall in the far corner. The rest of them are seated on the two facing sofas in Tessa’s hotel room – that same room that has his luggage splayed out rather conspicuously, though no one’s blinked an eye.

“We can rework the back half of the program,” Tessa says, firm and business-like about it. “The ideas are already on the table; we can work in some of the changes we’ve already talked about, refine Satine’s death sequence.”

Patch then coolly reels off a list of notes they can work on going forward, bouncing off of Tessa’s own critiques and ideas. It doesn’t come out as criticism, but reassurance. A reminder that there are improvements left to make, stones left to turn. If there’s a way to win, they’ll find it. He’s calm and collected with every word, and it has a soothing effect on everyone around him. If Patch can offer unruffled encouragement, there’s hope that their underlying, persistent unease is premature.

There are two months left. Two months left to change the colour of the medal.

Before their coaches head out, Patch offers Scott a warm, lengthy hug that he just sinks into. Instinct brings Tessa’s hand to his back, to give an affectionate stroke. Before she knows it, she’s caught inside their hug and J.F. joins them, his arms reaching around to give Scott a firm pat on the back.

It’s nothing like it was, she reminds herself. It’s nothing like the build-up to Sochi, not when they have a team who support them, who love them, who believe in them. Like family.

Patch and J.F. leave them alone, no questions asked about why Scott remains, no expectation that he wouldn’t. There’s not even an inquisitive glance. He stays, standing awkwardly behind Tessa like they’re waving off their parents after a family visit, or their children on the first day of school. And then they’re alone again, at last, and the air in the room changes.

Tessa turns to face him, taking him in a hug that’s just for two. There’s no warning and she catches him by surprise.

“We didn’t want it easy, Scott,” she reminds him, finding his hand as his arms hang awkwardly at his sides, as though this hug isn’t a well-practiced embrace. “This wouldn’t be fulfilling if it was a breeze. I truly believe that was the best outcome for our long-term goal; the more time that passes, the more I believe J.F. about that. If we went undefeated, it would be easy – even just subconsciously – to get complacent. Even us.”

She swings their handhold a little to get him to look her in the eye; usually he never looks away. “Now there’s no danger of that, eh? They have the pressure on them, the weight of expectation. And we have time to focus, to make sure this is the best free dance we’ve ever performed. Because I believe it can be.”

“Me too,” he replies, barely audible. And that’s when he finally looks back at her.

“Okay then. So what’s got you all wound up?” she asks, her hand letting go of his to move in soothing strokes up and down the line of his arm.

“Do you… think it’s because of us?”

Her eyebrows arch up. She can’t help the singular laugh that escapes her. “Scott,” she whispers, moving to stroke his cheek tenderly as they press their foreheads together. “We didn’t lose the Grand Prix Final because we’re happy. We’ve lost plenty of times when we weren’t. Besides last year, losing the Grand Prix Final is practically a good luck charm for us.”

If all was fine, he’d say something like, ‘ _I don’t think you should add that to your list of superstitions, T_.’ And she’d laugh and roll her eyes. She almost expects him to say it still, even with all that tension in his face, his jaw tight and his eyes down. Instead, he replies, “So you don’t think we lost because we’re together?” 

“No.” Tessa doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so instead she pulls him closer and kisses his lips, as firm and certain a kiss as she’s ever given him. “You’ve just convinced yourself that’s what I think.” 

He says nothing to that. 

“We’ve got some work to do. But you and me do our best work when the pressure’s on,” is the best pep talk she can summon for this. It’s her best ‘Scott’. He gives a tight smile – _it’s something_ – and she resigns herself to that being about all that he’ll muster up for her tonight. “Right now, love, we need to sleep.”

When she kisses his cheek and goes to walk over to the hotel wardrobe to change, Scott gently pulls her back to him and finally, _finally_ , holds her. The detachment and restlessness and tension has left him. And he’s there with her again.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, his lips brushing over her shoulder. “I’m sorry for messing up, and for getting in my own head about it. I don’t want to let you down, ever.”

“You didn’t, you couldn’t,” she rushes to say. “We’re a team, Scott. I’m in this. With you.” Tessa strokes affectionately through his hair, leaving it lovingly disheveled. Shyly, she adds, “For keeps.”

Scott breathes out, his whole body heaving against hers. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you. Thank you for loving me,” he whispers against her, traces of the words glistening on her skin.

She pulls away then, taking his face in her hands to look at him – or rather, to get him to look at her, that thing he’s been doing only barely, only bashfully all night. _Look at me_ , she thinks with urgent concern. _If he could just look, he would understand_.

“When we get home, I’m gonna give you the letter I wrote you last year. It should be yours to open when you want to, when you need to, okay?” She waits for him to catch her eye, waits for him to get himself lost in all that green, holding his gaze with a warm smile as she tenderly sweeps his hair out of his face.

“If you ever doubt how I feel about you, just open it. You don’t need to wait until after the Olympics – I didn’t,” she points out with a dry laugh. “But I don’t want you to ever question that this isn’t what I want, what I’ve wanted for _so long_.”

“I love you, T.”

“I know you do.” Her reply is warm and light and quick. It sounds like a smile. _Of course_. “It’s in your eyes every time you look at me. But look carefully and you’ll see the same thing reflected back, I promise you.”

She caresses his cheek one last time before turning away to get ready for bed. Scott follows this time, watching her the way he does when she’s going through her bedtime routine at home (and now that they’re away from it, it feels more like their home than ever). He perches on the end of their bed to pull his shoes off, then his pants, then his t-shirt, but his eyes rarely move from her.

As she wipes her face with a cotton wool pad sodden with make-up remover, Tessa turns around to see him now clad in only his boxers. There’s a teasing smile on her face before she half-heartedly says, “So, we survived our first competition as a couple.”

Scott can’t help but laugh at her, at the way she wears that stupid grin to cover the grimace. “I can’t believe you’re smiling.”

“If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry,” Tessa reminds him as she pulls on her nightdress – and it’s a throwback to an odd little moment in the aftermath of Sochi, of the two of them sat together wallowing in their greatest loss, interrupted by a sudden burst of laughter. It had been him first but he’d immediately set her off without any need for explanation, and once she was giggling, there was nothing anyone could do. _If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry_ , he’d said back then. “You still make me laugh harder than anyone else in the world.”

The sweetness of her words permeates his expression, softening his features. He leans back, propping his hands behind him on the bed, and replies, “Well, that’s for totally selfish reasons: I really love that laugh.”

Tessa gets into his lap then, her legs opening so he can slide between them. They’re facing each other. And suddenly the laughter feels like a distant memory.

For a little while, they kiss and don’t say much of anything to each other — except moaned words of encouragement. He puts his hand under her dress and strokes the inside of her thigh, drawing out a shudder. Her back arches at the feeling, her hands roughly pulling at his hair.

“How could you ever think I wouldn’t want this?” she hears herself asking him, low and sultry.

Scott’s eyes fix her with a dark stare, a conversation passing between them in silence. With her legs wrapped around him and the faint hints of her fading lipstick marking his face, he’s anchored once more. Claimed. The relief of it – of her in his arms (maybe, just maybe, forever) – washes over him, seemingly again and again, persistent tears sparkling on his eyelashes in the warm, hazy lamplight of the hotel room. Even so, he holds her gaze. 

Tessa wipes the wetness from his eyes carefully before saying, soft and low and as steady as she ever was, “You told me that you wanted to be with me more than you want the gold medal. Why would you ever think I don’t feel exactly the same way? _I do_. Of course I do.”

As she speaks, she draws him closer. Her ankles cross behind his back, legs shifting until they’re pressed up together. Too close would be impossible. Her hand on the back of his head guides him to rest against her bare shoulder, the strap of her dress having slipped down amidst the heat between them, as she lowers her cheek to his shoulder, turning into the arch of his neck for comfort. 

They fuse together like yin and yang, slotting effortlessly into place.

“Believe me when I tell you, I don’t regret any of it. Not our kiss and all the kisses that came after, and not the 20 years by your side.” Tessa presses her lips to his pulse point at that – a faint peck, a punctuation mark, a promise. “Today we lost. Yes. But tonight I’m gonna fall asleep in your arms and it’s gonna feel a hell of a lot like winning. And I know we’ve got more, and we’ll be ready, come February.”

And for tonight, that’s enough.

They kiss for a while in a haze of drowsy affection and then move up the bed, shifting until they find comfort.

She holds him till he falls asleep. He holds her till she falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for this chapter was the starting point for the whole fic, tbh. I couldn't say as much at the start because I didn't want to give the game away, but one of the initial ideas I had was: _what if they finally get together and it happens just before they lose the Grand Prix Final?_ Why? I don't know. I'm a monster.
> 
> Everything else formed from that question. I thought it would be an interesting approach to elaborate on a bunch of my favourite real moments over the course of the comeback. I'm really just indulging my inner romantic, and my enduring love for them and their programs, performances, practices, interviews, looks shared. I hasten to add that this isn't a 50k+ headcanon; it's just a fun take that draws on all of those little moments that I live for.
> 
> To anyone who's come with me this far, THANK YOU, I LOVE YOU, YOU'RE FAB. I've been doing this thing solo (no betas, no GCs, etc.), so it's been the comments you've left that've kept me going through all 20+ chapters. Anyway, we're on the home straight now. The end is in sight! (Unlike that confirm, haha.)
> 
>  **Next time?** The holidays are coming...


	22. who knows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this has reached almost a thousand kudos! That is W I L D and the joy of an extra comment, an extra kudos, an extra bookmark is still some kind of wonderful to me. I know I've touched on this before but a few days ago, I happened upon a Twitter thread that was filled with reactions to my fic and I was genuinely so touched. I've always seen certain fics being talked about outside of AO3, but it's so heartwarming and cool to see it when it's mine that people are excited about. I keep almost messaging people to say thanks and then shying away, but I'll thank you here!
> 
> That particular one was [@tutuandmoir](https://twitter.com/tutuandmoir/status/1028085847482986496) (the Tessa reaction pic had me laughing so hard), but I've seen @anakinleias and @_bucketofrice and and @thatonekimgirl and @thatgirlTVSM and a few others, and every single time knocks me out. Thank you for making this dorky little VM fan's day. I now wish I'd chosen a less cliché title so it was searchable, haha. But I appreciate it so much and can't tell you how motivating that is to see when you're 50k deep in, still trying to carve out the time to keep the story coming in regular chapters. 
> 
> I hope I do you all justice with the rest of this! I wanted to have some festive fun (in August, ha). This one's almost a fic within a fic, and it's a longer chapter – after a longer wait. I really hope you enjoy!!

After the heartache of their Grand Prix Final defeat, their view narrows to a singular goal: the Olympics. They don’t let up for a minute, analyzing and over-analyzing ever detail of the Moulin Rouge program, deconstructing it and putting it back together again. By the time Christmas rolls around, it’s already been transformed. It’s stronger than before by their own assessment, honed with precision to suit every technical requirement, every marginal gain.

In the midst of these efforts, the few weeks between the end of the Grand Prix season and Christmas also serve as a reminder that whatever they were feeling during their last Olympic quad, this isn’t it. The support from their team mounts with each passing day. Unlike losses of days gone by that had left them turning only to each other, their trust in Marie and Patch has been rewarded with utmost loyalty. There isn’t a day that goes by where Patch doesn’t suggest some new technical alteration, where Marie doesn’t elevate the choreography with little finesses or embellishments.

When they break for the holidays, the time away is accepted only reluctantly. They’re going home to family, of course, but – and this is when it hits both of them fully for the first time – this is a family too. What they’ve created in Montreal is a different kind of family, just as special as what awaits them in their little patch of Ontario.

Nevertheless, the timeout will be good for them. Tessa is experienced enough to recognize that it will serve the programs well to come back with fresh eyes.

As they’re packing, it occurs to Scott that perhaps they might need to have a game plan for this particular homecoming, considering certain other small, only slightly life-altering changes that have taken place since last they were home. He’s in the middle of wrestling with the zip of his holdall when he absently asks, “Have you told anyone?”

Tessa shakes her head, forcing him to look up for her answer.

He considers it for a moment, leaving the bag at his feet to earn her full attention. His eyebrows perk up a little as he says, “Not even Jordan?”

“Not yet,” she replies, and it comes out sounding more like _I’m not ready_. Tessa can see the worry in his eyes, the way they widen, unblinking, and she’s quick to add, “I don’t want you to think it’s because I’m not sure of this, or that I’m not completely in this.”

“Why then?” He’s close enough now to tuck her hair behind her ear, and the ghost of his touch pulls her in closer. “I’m trying to understand.”

She understands. His love is shouting from the rooftops, hers is a delicate whisper.

“Because it’s the most important thing in the world to me and I want to hold it close as long as we possibly can,” is the truth that rushes from her lips as her eyes drift away, shying from the focus of his heavy, fixed gaze. Even as she speaks it, her gentle words are barely heard above the silence. It’s nothing like her assured public speaking voice; it’s fragile, a series of words that she’s never uttered before that might just break apart as she says them aloud. Once they _are_ said, though, she finds confidence in the release, looking up at last to find him waiting patiently for her attention, wearing that soft, easy smile that belongs to her.

“It’ll always be ours. Just ours, T,” he promises her, his hand holding her cheek as he gently strokes his thumb along her jawline. “No matter who knows.”

“Yeah,” is her laconic reply. She gives him a fleeting kiss.

“I don’t care who knows.” Scott places a hand over his chest. “I don’t mind if you never want to tell anyone. But,” he sighs, and it sounds frustrated or impatient and she can’t help the worry line that forms between her eyes, “I’m struggling to see us getting through Christmas without one of our nosy relatives picking up on something. I just don’t want you to be…”

“I won’t,” she reassures him, shaking her head. “Let’s just… play it by ear. If they find out, they find out.”

“That simple?” he replies with a laugh. 

“That simple.”

Tessa knows it’s not that simple at all. She knows that their family – who’ve watched them together for two decades, who know most of the ins and outs of the ups and downs of that 20-year rollercoaster – will pick up on every little clue. She also knows deep down that their secret is already slipping, that Patch and Marie can’t have missed the evidence that’s scattered across the length of their relationship so far. They say nothing; their understanding is locked in wry smiles and knowing glances, and those are easy enough to overlook when there’s so much work to be done. Their families, however, could never manage that level of discretion.

And sure enough, their Christmas break unfolds like a particularly traumatic comedy of errors.

They drive back to Tessa’s house three days before Christmas. 

Scott unloads his bags just inside her doorway and it’s strange how right it feels. A deep breath and _home_. With their belongings mingling together at his feet, he leans over to kiss her, surprising her with more passion than she anticipates after such a long drive. He draws away to say, breathless by his own efforts, “I’ll take them upstairs now.”

“No,” she hears herself pleading, grabbing the back of his head decisively to bring his lips back to hers, _where they belong_. She feels him smile into the kiss.

With his hands roaming her body appreciatively and their kiss deepening, they get caught up in impulse. She runs her fingers through his hair, tugging on thick handfuls as his tongue moves with hers. The boldness of this release only spurs them on. Soon, their surroundings are forgotten; it’s just him and her, and the heat between them.  

Scott’s puffer jacket hits the floor with a slap, and Tessa pulls his belt off with aplomb before that swiftly follows. His sweater, his t-shirt, every damn layer gets abandoned as they fall haphazardly together into her kitchen. It’s not a considered route. The journey follows wherever they stumble. Their focus remains entirely caught in their kiss. She hardly notices as he pulls her clothes away, only aware of the way his cool hands brush against her skin in the process, only aware of the way the overhead tug of her top forces their lips apart for just a moment, only aware of both his hands sliding down her ass to peel her jeans off, causing her breath to hitch.

With his pants at his ankles and hers abandoned entirely, he uses his grip on her ass to lift her off her feet and presses her up against the wall of immaculate white cupboards. The movement makes their kiss more ragged, her lips breaking apart from his to find his neck as she stretches her palm to stroke all the way down his back. Inevitably, Tessa soon settles on her favorite spot: his backside, squeezing her encouragement as he does the same in return, eliciting a harmony of moans.

He has her splayed against the wall, her legs now hooked around his waist to keep them pressed tight. Finding her hands, he weaves his fingers between hers before bringing them above their heads. Their grip tightens and slackens with every touch and release, fingers locking together as they grow more desperate, as his weight shifts against her and it becomes clearer and clearer that this is happening here, right here.

She breaks their handhold only to remove their last remaining obstacles, repositioning to enable him to pull away his boxers as she does her best to slide gracefully from her underwear without untangling herself from him. It’s hastily done, and as soon as they’re in the clear, Scott’s quick to press closer, recapturing her lips with even more urgency this time, with even more confidence.

Christening her kitchen in such a manner hadn’t been quite the homecoming she’d been planning, but whatever ideas she _had_ considered were now far from her mind.

All she can think is this, now, with him.

As the friction between them builds, the grip of their hands tightens, knocking carelessly against the cupboards above them. Her legs are clamped around his waist as he presses up against her. His face is burrowed in the curve of her neck, his hot breath stirring goosebumps and blushes all the way down her chest.

Then, suddenly, she hears the sound of a knock.

It’s two hard thumps and she hesitates, waiting for him to react against her, assuming it’s Scott, that he’s hurt somehow; it wouldn’t be the first sex-related mishap they’ve encountered. But he carries on undeterred, generously, dedicatedly, single-mindedly pushing every ounce of sense or inhibition far from her mind. Soon, she’s curling around him just as before and pulling his face up to kiss him in that messy, languid way that takes hold once their tired, sated bodies have lost all control.

It’s then – pressed up against the wall with hands locked together above their heads, with Tessa’s knee hiked over her partner’s ass, with no scrap of clothing left on either one of them – that Jordan stumbles in (and then promptly out again).

“Oh, fuuuu—”

The horrified exclamation startles both of them, instinctively prompting them to detach from each other urgently. There’s no time in the moment to consider that remaining pressed up against the cabinets with each other’s bodies for cover might have been a more modest approach. As they separate suddenly, there’s a brief moment when Scott is just staring – naked and frozen – at an equally shell-shocked Jordan.

She blunders backwards into the doorframe, her hands over her eyes, muttering, “I’m never gonna unsee it!” as she backs away into the hallway, fumbling for clear space.

“You weren’t meant to be here!” Tessa calls back, the strain in her voice making it come out comically shrill. At least, it _would_ be comical if it weren’t so mortifying. “You said _tonight_! Tonight. It’s not even three!”

“T!” Scott catches her attention with a hard, almost shouted whisper, throwing over several previously discarded layers as he hastily covers himself up, putting his boxers on inside out in the frenzy of it. He’s thrown himself behind the kitchen island to shield Jordan from the sight of him, making no effort to reappear even once he’s respectably dressed once more.

“I thought I’d surprise you!” Jordan spits back from the other room, the sound of her words echoing their way through the house. “How was I to know _that_ was happening? Oh my god. I’m gonna need a lobotomy.”

“Why did you come in without knocking?” Tessa calls out, wincing again. And again and again and again. She looks across to Scott, who’s now bent double over the countertop with his head in his hands.

“I _did_ knock! Clearly you were too busy knocking boots in here to hear me!”

“You should’ve waited…”

“Well, I think you’ll agree the punishment outweighed the crime.”

Tessa’s unable to do anything but grimace.

“I need to wash my eyes. What’s the stuff they had in _Silkwood_? I need a _Silkwood_ shower for my eyes!” Jordan cries out as Tessa walks through – now fully dressed – to greet her, shaking her head at the way her sister is still covering her face. “Is it safe now?”

“Yes,” is Tessa’s rather dry response, delivered with an eye roll she saves for when Jordan eventually looks at her.

The Virtue sisters finally hug it out and, mid-embrace, Jordan whispers, “Really, T? In the kitchen? It’s unsanitary!” As Tessa’s head starts to shake again, she hears, “Although, I guess you don’t really do any actual cooking in there anyway, eh?”

“Nice to see you too,” is all she can think to reply, still reeling, but grateful for the quick bounce-back on Jordan’s sense of humor – even if her own might take a little longer to return.

“Hello Scott!” Jordan shouts (with unnecessary volume) in the direction of the kitchen, seemingly healed by Tessa and Scott’s profound humiliation and already having her fun with it. “I’d hug you but… yeah, I’m probably never gonna be able to look you in the eye again so, maybe not.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, and Tessa cringes her way through the long, lonely silence. Eventually, she and Jordan hear a faint, small, “Okay.”

Jordan turns back to her sister: “So I’m gonna leave you to finish—”

“Please stop.”

“—whatever—”

“Stop.”

“—you were—”

“No.”

“—doing.”

“Jordan.”

“What?”

“You can’t tell anyone what you saw,” Tessa pleads with rather more seriousness than she’s getting in return, her eyes wide and imploring.

“I don’t want to tell anyone what I saw! I wish _I_ could unsee what I saw!”

“You can’t say anything to—”

“What about a medical professional? How did they do it in _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_? That’s what I need.”

Tessa just stands in her foyer with one hand on her hip, shaking her head and waiting for Jordan to finish. It’s only after a short but spirited rant about erasing her memory “whatever the cost” that Jordan seems to consider the other side of what she might’ve walked in on. Her attention settles on her sister again and calmly, without the frenetic panic of flashbacks running through her mind, she asks, “You’re together then?”

“Yeah.” It’s soft and bashful and sugary sweet.

“Are you happy?”

The nod Tessa gives in response is coy, her eyelashes fluttering just thinking about the breadth of her admission. _Happy doesn’t even cover it_.

“He looks after you?” Jordan asks in a hushed tone, cautious about the fact that Scott’s only in the next room.

“It’s Scott,” Tessa reminds her, and that’s all she really has to say. _It’s Scott_.

“Yeah, it is.” And Jordan’s eyebrows hitch up as if it’s just now hitting her. Tessa finds herself mirroring the expression and breathing in a deep breath. _It’s him, it’s finally, finally him_. “Is it weird? I mean, _it’s_ _Scott_.”

“No, it’s… good.”

“ _O_ -kay.” Jordan cuts her off before she can elaborate.

“He’s a really good kisser,” she whispers, mostly in teasing, as her sister’s embarrassment finally seems to outweigh her own.

“Didn’t ask, did I? Did I ask?” Jordan resists, her face contorting as the memories of what she’d witnessed only minutes earlier seem to return afresh. “We’re talking about little Scotty Moir here.”

“ _I know_.”

“Don’t say ‘I know’ like that. Like you know. I don’t want to know!”

“Sorry, I’m just… happy.”

“I can’t believe I cheerleaded so hard for this and it came back to bite me in the ass so spectacularly,” Jordan laments with a disbelieving sigh. There’s sincerity when she looks at her younger sister, who’s plainly vacillating between deep shame and irrepressible, beaming joy. “But I am glad you’re happy, T, truly. You deserve it.”

“I should, umm—” Tessa gesticulates in the direction of her kitchen: the scene of the crime, as well as the last known sighting of Scott. Possibly ever.

“Yeah. And I should…” Jordan nods her head towards the front door.

“I’ll see you and mom at the Moirs’ place tomorrow?”

“If I can book myself in for that memory-wiping thing in time.”

She gives Tessa a quick hug and then heads out the door, yelling her farewell to Scott in much the same mocking tone as her hello.

When Tessa wanders back to the kitchen in search of her humiliated boyfriend, she finds him still hanging the entire weight of his body over the countertop. She strokes her hand across his back in soothing, steady circles before placing a kiss to his shoulder.

“So.” Tessa breathes out a great big sigh. “The cat may be… out of the bag.”

Her words are permeated with resigned amusement as she leans herself over him to rest her chin on his back. As soon as she says it, Scott lets out a groan that leads them both into a fit of laughter.

 _So much for not telling_.

It doesn’t get much better from there.

The next day’s pre-Christmas Virtue and Moir gathering leaves Jordan and Scott dodging each other so conspicuously that Tessa can see Alma forming new worry lines from across the room. She’s thinking the worst and she’s probably not the only one; there’ve been watchful eyes on her sister and her skating partner throughout stilted hellos, evaded hugs and increasingly transparent avoidance. 

They’re all a little off, all three of them, all keeping an uncommon – almost unheard of – distance from one another.

It’s made infinitely worse when, in the panic of the moment, Canada’s sweethearts buck tradition with mealtime seating arrangements and opt for opposite ends of the long table in an effort to minimize potentially revealing interactions. Scott’s nieces have spent time crafting handmade place cards for everyone, meaning that in order to avoid sitting with Scott, Tessa winds up in the place of her namesake, sat between Danny and his daughter. Meanwhile, the other Tessa – _Moir_ – is too polite to say a word about it, pulling out the chair between Scott and Kate Virtue, reacting as though of course the placement makes perfect sense.

As they all go to tuck into the food, the little one at Tessa’s side looks up, eyes big and wide and a little glossy with embarrassment, and asks if maybe she wouldn’t mind helping cut up her extra crispy ‘tatoes. This is also how, incidentally, she winds up spending most of the dinner trying to convince Charlotte to eat her vegetables, largely through complicated negotiation tactics and, eventually, begging. (Danny, of course, just lets it unfold as it may.)

Ignoring endless enquiring glances, Tessa lets the pleasantries fly over her head. _Stay quiet and act natural_ , she thinks to herself. And natural absolutely means not looking in the direction of either Scott or Jordan throughout their dinner.

When she eventually does shoot a glance over at Scott, he looks like he’s ready for the ground to swallow him up. She can see that he’s painting on a friendly smile for his sister-in-law, offering only monosyllabic replies as she regales some funny little tale about the kids pranking their dad.

“You’re acting very weird,” Danny says from her left, making her jump just a little at the sudden, low-voiced interruption to her thoughts. 

“No.”

“Either you’ve developed a very strong maternal instinct in the last few months or you’re avoiding my little brother,” he says, in that warm, teasing way that makes every word trickle out like an easy laugh. 

“I don’t get to see these guys enough!” Tessa replies, giving a less than an Oscar-worthy performance as she puts a friendly – and undeniably awkward – arm around Danny’s bemused daughter. “We had a lot to catch up on, didn’t we? I got to hear all about—”

“— _Moana_?”

“Yes,” Tessa says sharply, before her voice softens to a singsong to insist, “and lots of other interesting things.”

“Okay, kid. Give it up,” he pushes her, ignoring the presence of his oblivious child. Something about the way he leans back in his chair, exuding complete confidence in his accusation, tells Tessa she’s not getting out of this one.

“What?” 

“You and him.” It lingers a little too long. “What, have you fallen out? You’ve got an Olympics in two months, hardly the time to start avoiding each other. Jordan clearly knows something – it’s like she’s developed an allergy,” Danny points out just as they watch her swerve out of Scott’s path with some of the empty plates. “She’s been avoiding him all afternoon. So, spill.”

“Nothing to spill. We’re good.”

He leans a little closer. “What did he do?”

Tessa laughs. “He hasn’t done anything, Dan. Honestly.”

“I’ll kill him.”

“Please don’t. I need a partner,” she says, a smile turning up the corners of her mouth as they effortlessly fall into a well-worn repartee.

Danny stares at her, eyes thinning as he appears to analyze what to do with all the protective brotherly energy he’s mustered up. When he looks around the room again, Jordan catches his eye and he summons her with a wave. It’s the kind of beckoning that’s hard to ignore without making a scene, so Tessa watches her sister reluctantly make her way over, crouching between their seats before Danny asks, in a low voice, “What’s he done?”

Jordan looks between them in an attempt to catch herself up. “Who?”

“Scott.”

Jordan recoils at the mention of his name – a reflex – and Danny glares at her, then Tessa, as if to emphasize his evidence.

“Nothing,” Tessa repeats, pre-empting Jordan’s answer.

“Well…”

“Do I need to give him a talking to?”

“I think if he hasn’t had this talk already, it’s probably too late,” Jordan – _very helpfully_ – chimes in, seemingly without a second thought. It’s a reminder that this particular secret is far from safe now.

Danny stares mystified at Tessa, the question etched into his expression.

“You might as well tell him, Tess. He’s persistent.”

“Tell me what?” Danny pushes, but the smile curling at his lips suggests he might already have figured out his answer.

Tessa rolls her eyes, then leans to his ear, covering her mouth with her hands as she whispers, “Scott and I are… _together_. But we’re not telling anyone.”

Danny momentarily pretends to fall backwards off the chair, capturing his mother’s attention briefly before Tessa steadies him. “Big Hands!” he bursts out, throwing his arms around her with a sudden jolt of energy. _Subtle. Real subtle_.

“We aren’t telling anyone though, Danny,” she reiterates.

“So, who knows?”

“Just Jordan and now you.”

And it doesn’t take long before Jordan is retelling the circumstances of her own unfortunate discovery, despite Tessa’s efforts to conceal – or, better yet, wipe all memory of – the information. The relief of having another person to talk to about this subject means that Jordan Virtue cannot be stopped. Tessa watches as Danny’s expression fluctuates between horror and amusement. Already, she can see him thinking that one day this’ll make for one hell of a best man speech.

Not long after, when everyone’s drifted from the table to settle into small little groups, Tessa slips away to the bathroom to freshen up. She’d left Jordan and Danny with a strongly worded warning about any further leaks but when she comes back, she immediately starts searching the house to find them both for another round of pleading, rightfully concerned that Danny will start spilling all the juicy details just as soon as he’s out of sight.

It’s as she wanders through the hallway that she overhears a quiet conversation that captures her attention. Hovering in the doorway, just out of sight, Tessa stops to listen.

“I think we’ve just gotta… pretend that it never happened,” she can hear Jordan saying in a low voice. “For the sake of, well, everyone.” 

“I’m sorry. I’m just… ugh, I’m so sorry, Jordan,” Scott starts saying, and it doesn’t sound like it’s the first time. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“I should’ve knocked more. Or waited. I didn’t think in a million years—”

“No, I know,” he replies in a soft, warm voice that momentarily takes Tessa’s breath away. Then she hears him tenderly add, “I didn’t think in a million years either.” It’s said with an empty laugh that comes out a little more melancholic than he probably intends.

“You’re making my sister happy, Moir,” Jordan tells him then, the unspoken warning of it mixing in with an abundance of gratitude. And Tessa is immediately filled with appreciation for her sister’s tact in that moment, for the way she senses the strange, muddled cocktail of emotion that the whole situation provokes.

“I’m trying, Jord. I’m really fucking trying.”

Finally revealing her presence, Tessa can’t stop herself from snaking her arms around him from behind. She gives him a squeeze around the middle, planting a kiss to his shoulder. It’s natural and effortless, given without a thought. And she has time to say, smiling, “You’re friends again then,” before—

“What the—” Charlie starts from the doorway behind her as Danny trails in behind.

“What?” the eldest asks, looking from one brother to the other in an attempt to catch up. Tessa and Scott can’t break themselves apart quick enough before: “Oh.” Then Danny starts to laugh.

“You knew!” Charlie points at him accusingly.

“I know everything,” is Danny’s shrugged reply, a jovial smugness that must be hereditary seeping out with every word.

“We weren’t telling anyone—” Tessa starts to explain.

“Except Jordan and Danny? The two least discreet people in this family.”

“We didn’t tell them, so much as—”

“Jordan here got a bit of an eyeful,” Danny cuts in, giving her a nudge in the arm. 

“Let’s not get into the details, eh?” Scott winces at the memory, and Tessa has to suppress a laugh, watching Jordan wince too in perfect synchronicity right beside him.

“I’d rather not relive that memory, thank you,” mutters Jordan. Naturally, Danny immediately decides Charlie needs to hear all about the soon-to-be infamous kitchen incident.

As Scott’s head drops with the renewed shame of yet more people finding out, Tessa seeks out his hand with hers. They’re close enough that they can conceal the gesture behind their backs, unnoticed by their preoccupied siblings. A squeeze earns a faint half-smile in the background of Jordan, Danny and Charlie’s animated – though mercifully hushed – conversation.

It’s not until the following day that their news reaches the rest of the family. This time on their own terms.

When the Moirs head over to the Ilderton Skating Club for a Christmas Eve skate, Tessa finds herself invited into the tradition. It stirs a warm, fuzzy feeling in her gut to think that this is probably it now. Every year from now on, the night before Christmas, this will be her place too. And the invitation Alma is the first to extend her – before Carol, Joe, Danny and Scott all follow suit – is given without knowledge of what’s already changed and without awareness that, however much she’s already a part of the family, that tie will only get stronger.

As they step onto the ice, Scott reaches for her hand with renewed confidence. They’re here, their rightful place in the world, and suddenly she feels herself relax more than she has since they’ve been home; they can be themselves for anyone to see. This has always been a singularly safe space for them, the ice. It’s the place where their truth and their storytelling intermingles, where the colours bleed out of the lines. In the midst of half-revealed secrets and the uncertainty of their immediate future, this moment – in a rink that long ago forged the bonds that have held true for 20 years – feels like boundless freedom.

They glide out in perfect time without a word. They find themselves falling into their Moulin Rouge routine after stretching themselves out a little, loosely running through the movements without performing for anyone else. They can’t help themselves.

“Lift?” he asks, and she acquiesces after a glance at their family, rapt in admiration.

It’s familiar and comforting to fall back into their rhythm, and as Scott quietly sings, “ _I’ll be there by your side_ ,” she smiles the truest of smiles. If this is what it’ll come down to, it feels right.

They stick to one end of the rink, limiting their routine from the full measure of the ice to allow the kids to roam freely at the other end of it. Whole sections of their program are stripped away, but they ease in and out of the choreography with subtle nonverbal signals.

When they finish the dance and Scott brings her upright once more, she finds their faces close up against each other. There’s a sparkle in his eye, a question, a dare.

 _Yes_ , she thinks without hesitation before kissing him squarely on the lips, her nose bunching at the sweetness of it all. She knows wholly and completely what this means.

When they look towards their family, half the group are too busy skating away, but then there’s Alma, Joe, Carol and Cara beaming with pride.

After it’s over, they kiss goodbye in the parking lot as Tessa giggles nervously into her scarf, with all eyes on them. “Merry Christmas, T,” he tells her in the same small voice she remembers from their very beginning. The boyish grin, the wonder in his eyes when he looks at her in close-up – he seems almost childlike now. And she finds herself feeling those same old butterflies she remembers from one particular Ilderton Skating Carnival.

“Merry Christmas,” Tessa replies in a voice as little as his, stepping away reluctantly to leave him for London.

They spend Christmas Day with their respective relatives, separated only by 40 minutes in good traffic. He texts that same festive sentiment in the morning, and Jordan can tell it’s Scott just by the way Tessa blushes at her phone. Just knowing that he’s thinking of her makes her face light up like a Christmas tree.

Not long after that, in the midst of their gift unwrapping, her sister presents her with a brand new hi-tech doorbell, much to the confusion of the rest of the family. She stares up through her eyelashes, her lips fixed in a tight line as her mother asks from behind her, “What is it, Tess?”

“It’s a doorbell,” Jordan answers for her. “So that when Tessa’s home in London, she’ll always know when she’s got visitors.”

And that’s all the explanation they’ll offer.

When Jordan looks from Kate to Tessa, whose screwed up expression demands answers on the hasty turnaround, she breezily gives the OK hand gesture and mouths, “Prime.”

Tessa can’t think to do anything but shake her head.

Hours later, as evening comes and she and her mother settle down by the fire with hot cocoas and a book each, Tessa decides to tell her the news. Her hand’s forced anyway. She knows it’s time, she knows she has to tell her now, given that it will have spread among the Moirs like wildfire. It’s strange, though; despite her hesitancy to tell anyone at all, she feels quite sure that, no matter what, _this_ would have been the moment.

“Something on your mind, sweetheart?” offers the perfect opening.

Tessa breaks from her daydream to smile warmly in reply, her jumbled thoughts taking their time to formulate an articulate response. Kate seems unsurprised by the wait that follows her question, patient in her demeanour as Tessa’s brows furrow in careful thought.

“I, uh, I wanted to tell you that Scott and I are dating now,” she says eventually, careful in her release of each syllable. “It’s still quite new but I really wanted to… protect it. I was hoping that it could just be ours for a little while, if that makes any sense. But I did want you to know.”

Kate smiles to herself at that.

“You seemed different. Lighter, more relaxed,” her mother tells her without feigning an ounce of surprise. _She knew_. Kate knew already, as though somehow she’d received some kind of superhuman signal from the universe. Then she puts her hand on Tessa’s knee and adds, “I’m proud of you.”

Tessa can’t say anything to that, but the question in her mind is reflected in her expression.

Her mother elaborates: “I know it must’ve been hard. To take that leap.”

She nods to herself, thinking back to all that build-up. “I haven’t regretted it. Not for one single second.”

“My baby’s in love,” Kate laughs to herself.

A sneaky little tear seeps out of the corner of Tessa’s eye as she shifts in her armchair, tucking her legs beneath her to get cozy. _I am_ , she thinks. And it’s funny how comfortable and warmed she feels in her mother’s home, this place that she’s spent however many Christmases. She feels so settled. And yet. And yet just the word, the thought, the ache – _love_ – makes her yearn for him. The pang of it is so undeniably real and strong, she has to laugh off the sudden burst of emotion under her mother’s gaze. 

“You’ll be together again in no time,” Kate reminds her as Tessa gives herself away with a wet sniff.

And they are.

They return to Montreal before the year's out in an attempt to minimize the impact of the break. New Year's Eve is spent curled up in Tessa's condo, with a return to Scott's home cooking and a movie – _Pride and Prejudice_ , with only minimal protest – before it’s early to bed.

They're clinging to early bedtime in a devoted effort to maintain their optimum sleep schedule for training, with only a few weeks before their final Nationals and the debut of their revitalized free dance. Thankfully, the fact that they're doing it all together makes it much less of a hardship.

Their focus remains sharp, despite the hiatus. It's the sharpest it's ever been in the immediate aftermath of a Christmas break. They used to be so preoccupied with what the other team were doing – whether Meryl and Charlie had trained more or less, whether these little sacrifices would make the difference. Now, the comparison is a strange one. She still thinks of Meryl and Charlie instead of their current competitors, imagining their lives now that they don't have to worry about training at all. She lies in bed with Scott wondering if that will be in their immediate future too. From inside the pressure cooker of Olympic hype, it’s hard to imagine everything beyond this. A life beyond early nights and early mornings.

"Look at us. We're no fun at all," Tessa says, rolling over to snuggle into the side of his chest. Her defeated expression as she lays her cheek flat against him – the hint of a pout on her lips – makes him chuckle just a little, the motion of it shaking against her.

"We'll be fun next year. Next year, we'll do everything we can't do right now," he consoles her, running his hand from the curve of her shoulder all the way down her back.

"We can actually stay up till 12," she imagines, wistfully, as he stretches over to turn out his bedside light without breaking contact with her. Before she does, she notices the envelope – her handwritten letter to him – resting against the lamp there, still unopened, still filled with all of the things she still can’t quite say aloud, still waiting for the moment to come when he really, really needs it.

As the room cuts to black, he says, "We'll stay up past 12, we'll count down to midnight together and kiss long before it gets to 3, 2, 1; we'll dance until they shut the music down and long after that, until we can't feel our legs anymore, and…"

Tessa's leg crosses over him to slide between his, slotting into place there as he twists towards her ever so slightly and places a kiss to her forehead. His hand rests flat on her back, holding her inside their sleepy embrace as he shifts closer and closer and never close enough.

"We can host it at the house." _'My house'_ doesn't feel quite right anymore. Not for this. Not for their vision of the future.

"Cover your pristine white house in colourful confetti and puddles of beer?"

"So we stick to the rooms with the tiled and hardwood floors."

"Got it," he laughs.

After a silence settles between them, one that stretches out long enough for Tessa's mind to wander through a vast field of possible futures, she breaks it with a whisper: "I hope a year from now we're still this happy."

"A year from now, we'll be toasting to an incredible 2018," he replies in that assured way that he has sometimes that makes her believe every word, even if he knows no more than she does. He believes. And that's persuasive enough. This effortless assurance is reserved only for conversations about them, the two of them, and often she wishes he wouldn't use up all his confidence on their partnership; she wishes he'd leave just a little for himself. (He doesn't, of course.) For her, it bursts out of him. "We can do whatever we want to this time next year, eh, T. I'll be able to tell everyone that I'm in love with this unbelievable, brilliant woman, that I'm gonna marry her, that I won the Olympics with her.

“I'll be able to say everything that's too much for a month in. I'll be able to tell you everything I'm still afraid to say now."

It suddenly feels like one of those conversations that’s so personal and delicate that it requires this pitch blackness, like two kids on a sleepover, revealing their deepest, darkest secrets.

"Me too," she admits, barely above a breath, the movement of her lips brushing against his skin to confirm that the sound he hears is her voice.

"I don't want to overwhelm you," he replies, almost every word separated by a hesitation. It stirs her to lift her head just enough so that she can look at him, moving her fingers to comb through his hair as she holds his heavy gaze.

Her answer – "You couldn't" – gets lost in a kiss. Sweet and firm. She repeats those same words before kissing his cheek, and his forehead, and his jaw, and finally his chest, before settling her head there once more. Her favorite pillow.

"I think this'll be our year, Tess," he says, more relaxed as she cozies up to him again and closes her eyes.

A contented sigh escapes her as she starts to drift off. "If the last 20 are anything to go by."

"Happy almost 2018, T," he whispers, absently playing with her hair where it falls against his hand.

Half-dreaming already, she mumbles, "Happy new year."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to pretend I haven't spent the last hour listening to TS' 'New Year's Day' on a loop and thinking about that and them and life and love and "Candlewax and polaroids on the hardwood floor, you and me from the night before". 
> 
> Also, apologies that this chapter is MEGA long! Hope it doesn’t drag on but… so much family fluff to fit in. 
> 
> As always, your comments mean the world! Please come talk to me. We made it to 2018, haha!


	23. worth the wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that the wait for the last few chapters has been a little longer. A combination of full-time work, trips away, fundraising and training for a race, trying to stay on top of my reading goal for the year and planning a cheeky little trip to Canada have left me with approximately zero hours free. But the story will keep coming, I promise. And I keep writing a million little scenes (especially for the Pyeongchang chapters) that I'm really excited to get to, it's just the editing that's taking time. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for understanding and for sticking with me. It's so fun reading all of the responses when I do post a new chapter! (The tweets about the Jordan debacle were hysterical!)

Amid the relentless training for their Olympic moment, there’s little time for romance. Their romance barely stretches beyond the limits of choreography in the immediate build-up to Nationals. There’s no time. And when there _is_ time, they find themselves too exhausted to make the most of it. Instead, they end every (early) night together lying skin-to-skin, dreaming of all the things they _will_ do someday soon, retirement heavy in the subtext of it all.

The tension is gone, though. The tension that once underpinned every reference to post-competitive life, every acknowledgement of The End.

Instead, things are easy and comfortable, playfulness and teasing breaking up the lengthy, focused training sessions at Gadbois. The giddiness of their blossoming new relationship seems to afford them both an abundance of energy whenever they’re at the rink – rather a surprise, considering how deep into the season they are. But still they glide cheerily together between run-throughs, switching wordlessly from dance holds to handholds and laughing at each other’s best (and worst) imitations of fellow skaters. They enjoy living in the moment, every moment, even through the exhausting, intensive hours of training.

It’s one quiet morning, not too long into the new year, when Marie-France dares to pry. Her words barely above the echoing background noise of the rink, “You’re skating better because of _this_ ,” she tells them both as they approach her at the boards, gesturing her arms in a vague, fluid motion between them. “Your lightness.”

At her side, burying his smile in the fur lining of his coat, Patch raises his eyebrows.

There’s room to ignore or pivot away from the comment; it’s indirect and without accusation. It carries the kind of deft ambiguity that only Marie-France can artfully navigate. But Tessa gives a shy nod, surrendering to the inevitable, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. It’s out already anyway; their families know, their families who will reliably give the game away at their very next competition.

Now that it feels unavoidable – this conversation that’s been brewing since that life-altering dinnerless night in her kitchen – she finds herself unafraid. It’s the same feeling that took hold before she confessed to her mother: relief, and the sudden realization that this big surprise will come as no surprise. The words barely need to be spoken.

Her worry is what comes after: asking them to keep their secret.

Taking Tessa’s nod as all the encouragement he needs, Scott starts to stammer through their declaration – “T and I are… we’re…” – and they let him, little smiles pulling at their lips, eyebrows knitting together in feigned confusion. “Me and T. We’re… romantically… _involved_.”

“Huh,” Marie says, turning to look at Patch who makes a shrug face at her.

“You know,” Tessa states flatly before a laugh, and they laugh with her. It’s hearty and joyful, the warm sound of it enveloping in her in a comforting, safe feeling.

“Call it a hunch,” Marie replies. “If it hadn’t happened already, we knew it was a matter of time.” Looking between the two of them and then back to Patch stirs a sudden burst of excitement, her glee going up a notch before she reiterates to her husband, “My babies in love!”

Despite characteristic restraint, Patch turns to smile at her, his hand rubbing up and down his wife’s back as her face lights up. Tessa blushes at how confidently her coach makes the assessment, at how unabashed Marie-France is about immediately throwing out the L-word. It’s true, of course, but living inside the feeling hasn’t given Tessa the clearest understanding of quite how obvious it might be to those around them.

“We’re gonna keep it quiet for now,” Scott’s quick to add, lowering the volume of their conversation somewhat. His chest puffs out a little in some amusing combination of pride and pre-emptive defence. His warm hand tightens its hold of Tessa’s. “The timing would be risky and… we know we have to focus on the Games without the distraction.”

“But you’re—?” Patch starts.

Tessa cuts him off to say, “We don’t really… We haven’t really _defined_ things.”

It’s awkward, and she winces at her own phrasing, shooting a nervous glance to Scott, who reassures her with a half-smile. Sweetly, he adds, “But we’re happy,” and she feels sure that her own words only sounds worse by comparison. Cold and harsh and not at all how she meant.

Their coaches say no more after that, letting them skate out of reach and back to center ice for another free dance practice. She spends the rest of the session squeezing Scott’s hand a little tighter, trying to offer little affirmations and gestures. There’s no hint of tension on display from him, but the memory of her stuttered resistance to a label, a name, a commitment reverberates in her mind. As does his moment of doubt back in Nagoya.

It’s not until they’re reunited at home – after gym time, independent sessions with J.F., physio and her own meetings – that she finally addresses it.

He’s not home when she gets in, much to her disappointment. When they’re even slightly out of sync, it makes her yearn all the more; it’s a restlessness that she can’t seem to quell. She can’t stop thinking about her small, delicate misstep. The bluntness of her messy, awkward reply plays on loop in her mind. He’d smiled – or at least sold something that was halfway there – but there was more to it.

After dumping her bags in an unusually haphazard fashion on the sofa, Tessa wanders to the bathroom with a singular purpose. She grabs her most expensive bottle of bubble bath and turns on the faucet. It’s a conscious attempt to settle her unsteadiness, to manufacture a heavy dose of calm as the pressure and doubt and worry threatens to break through this little window of uncertainty. She’ll tell herself _it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine_. She’ll try not to read too much into every minute he runs long with J.F.

By the time Scott does arrive home, Tessa’s settled under a blanket of bubbles with her hair thrown atop her head in a messy bun. The familiar sound of his squeaky trainers warms her to smile, and it doesn’t take long before he finds her, immediately leaning over the bathtub to kiss her before throwing off his puffer jacket.

“You look pretty.”

“No,” she laughs it off, rolling her eyes in blushing embarrassment. She suddenly feels vulnerable and a little heady under the heat of his spotlight.

“I like you like this,” Scott continues, unfazed by her pushback, perching on the edge of the tub. He looks at her with a soft, stirring gaze. It’s as though he knows his eyes alone will earn her trust, the full force of his attention shining down to convince her of every word.

“Exhausted?”

“Relaxed. With your pineapple hair.” His nose bunches as he gives her bun a squeeze, making a quiet little horn noise as he does it.

“Hmm.”

“I don’t want to disturb your zen,” he says then, briefly posing with a meditative hand gesture before shifting as though to leave her to it. But her hand finds his thigh perched along the line of the bathtub, commanding him to stay. She takes pleasure in the wet handprint she knows it’ll leave on his pants.

“I missed you today,” Tessa confesses quietly, a playful pout underlining her sentiment. “Talk to me. Or do you have stuff to do?”

“No, I was just gonna make my better half some dinner.”

“Oh yeah? In that case, don’t let me keep you.”

They laugh then, matching lines appearing at the corners of their eyes, and she basks in the warmth of it. It prompts her to lift herself up to kiss him again, bringing his face down to hers with a firm hand on the back of his head.

“You know, I’m actually,” she places another peck to his lips, “not that hungry.”

“Oh yeah?” His voice is low and he draws away just enough to appreciate the view of her body arching up to reach him.

“I think dinner can wait,” she whispers in his ear, her wet hands teasing the back of his neck as she strokes tender circles.

She knows she’s got him. Maybe she didn’t even have to try this hard. He’s putty in her hands, kicking his shoes off awkwardly before stripping away every layer and climbing in. Besides some momentary splashing – because it’s Scott, and he can’t help himself – he settles quickly, positioning himself at the opposite end to face her, his legs lying outside the line of hers.

For a while, they just look at each other. His hands start to knead the arches of her feet and she closes her eyes at the delicious relief of it.

“So, how was the rest of your day?”

Tessa can’t resist smiling to herself before answering, warmed by the question alone and the domesticity of it. “Busy, but good. I had the meeting with Russell and it looks like Nivea want to extend the contract beyond the initial commitments, and the feedback on the Hillberg & Berk designs came back very positive.”

His face lights up. “Yeah? That’s awesome, T.”

“Yeah,” she replies, the blush hidden by the present rosiness of her skin from just being in the bath. She can’t help but think it’s all the more awesome because he’s there to share in it. Every bit of news is better when she gets to come home to tell him about it. He’ll beam at her, say something supportive and kind and reassuring, he’ll remind her that she’s worthy of every piece of success that comes her way, and then – her favorite part – he’ll look away, head bowed, and smile to himself. And it’s the look of a man who can’t believe his luck.

 _He looks beautiful like this_ , she thinks, his fluffy, ungelled hair damp at the ends where it meets the line of the water, his eyes creased to a smile, a lopsided grin fixed to his face. He looks content, truly content. There’s a stillness about him that she’s never known before; it’s new, it’s comforting. Even with the eyes of a nation on them and all that pressure, even with their hearts wholly invested in their Olympic goal, they can still find a moment to be Tessa and Scott. And enjoy it, relish it, live in it.

Tessa guides her hands absently across the water, tracing abstract patterns with her index finger. When she looks up again, she studies his expression in the settled silence before abruptly coming out with: “I'm sorry I was kinda weird today, earlier, with Marie and Patch. When Patch was asking… about us.” She lets out a breath so deep it releases a sigh. “I know it’s a little murky right now. But we can figure things out after, eh? _We_ know how we feel. That’s all that matters. And we can make plans and put labels on things once this part of our lives is done.”

Delicately, her nerves apparent by the tremble in her voice, she suggests, “I think for now, we just savor all of it.”

“Sounds perfect,” he replies, and he really seems to understand. He uses her feet and the momentum of the water to pull her towards him, bringing Tessa into his lap. “We’ve got enough pressure on us. We don’t need... that.”

“We _are_ together,” Tessa affirms resolutely. She moves her forehead to his as she feels his hand reach for hers below the water. “That’s all I ever needed.”

“It’s all I ever needed,” he echoes. And a breezy, bright smile spreads across his face as he weaves his fingers between hers.

“And if you ever doubt how I feel—”

“I’ve got my letter,” Scott finishes for her, beaming. He kisses her softly and sweetly before asking, “Did you think I was freaking out?”

“No,” she lies, and it’s a playful, obvious lie.

“You thought I was freaking out.”

“No, I had total and complete faith in you,” she insists, a guilty smile pulling at her lips as her fingers tease through his hair. After a standoff of raised eyebrows and coy grins, Tessa’s face grows a little more serious before she adds, “But I wouldn’t have blamed you. I know it sounded…” She cringes at the flashback.

Scott’s hand sweeps down the length of her arm. “I knew what you meant.”

“Good.”

“And you were very cute in practice after. All those little squeezes. And ‘Good job, Scott! Solid catch, Scott! You’re so handsome, Scott’,” he imitates, theatrically bringing a hand up to his chest, playing it gushy and high-pitched and ridiculous just to tease her back to a smile.

She rolls her eyes, sliding back in the tub, but not before flicking some bubbles in his direction. “I don’t sound anything like that.”

“If people find out you’re a softie at heart, your reputation’ll be ruined, T.”

“Well, good thing it’s just between us then, eh?”

Scott laughs.

“You’re just gonna have to try not to give it all away on national television,” Tessa reminds him with a look of faux sternness.

“I can’t help my face, Tess.”

“Maybe you just need to, you know,” she shrugs nonchalantly, before edging a little closer, her hands drawing slowly up his legs, “find a way to get it out of your system a little… before Nationals.”

He starts to pull her closer, his hand finding her ass under the water and bringing her back into his lap. “Oh?”

Tessa places her hands on his shoulders before leaning closer, letting her breath tease his skin as she whispers in his ear, “I have a few ideas."

Scott’s natural reaction is a low, growling moan as he shifts to align the two of them.

Of course, the whole getting-it-out-of-their-systems plan is pretty much dead on arrival and they both know it. It’s a laughable notion. A matter of days before their next competition isn’t going to allow for the depth of feelings between them, for a start. But it’s fun to toy with the idea, to push themselves to new highs in the midst of affection and still come up wonderfully short of anything like getting it out of their systems.

From the moment they arrive in Vancouver, the excitement of the occasion and the significance of their farewell season outweighs any self-consciousness. Neither one of them can resist grateful glances or bashful smiles and, of course, that long, indulgent hug is just a necessary part of their pre-skate routine.

They make a promise before the short dance that they’ll go out to enjoy it. “What’s the point if we’re not enjoying it?” Scott reminds her, and with a nod they’re on the same page.

The three minutes are over in the blink of an eye and before they can believe it, the adoring Canadian crowd has erupted into cheers.

“That was fun,” he says, panting, as they skate back to the boards afterwards.

Moulin Rouge follows the next day, of course. One final, fantastic competitive skate in Canada. They love each other, they love this program and they love their country. It’s time to make a memory.

They’ve performed this program countless times. In practice and in competition. This time, the strings that open their score bring a swell of goosebumps to her skin. Every sense is heightened. He’s right there in front of her, as always, a look of steely determination on his face that she knows means business. He looks rock solid. Waiting in that opening position for the cue that sends them both gliding out into the dance, she feels more certain than she ever has that they will soar. It feels remarkably triumphant from the very start, a charge of electricity circuiting throughout the whole arena.  

The sharpness of the steps, the depth of the edges, the way the music carries them through – it all comes together to glorious effect. The energy of the crowd amplifies as they build through the program, helping them dig out every last scrap of energy to give and give and give with absolute precision.

When they reach ‘Come What May’, the electricity seems to spark. The song is alive in every movement. Tessa can hear Scott singing the words, singing them to her. It’s strange, the mid-performance realization that comes. Because for him, it’s always been about her. He’s spent the best part of a year singing, “I will love you until my dying day” to her so this shouldn’t be a surprise. But it is. The revelation washes over her as they move into their side-by-side, as he turns to face her with his serenade ready.

Tessa’s never felt invincible before, but this comes pretty close. She’s invincible right up until Satine dies in Christian’s arms, and then it’s over.

In the blink on an eye, it’s over: their final competitive performance at Nationals.

The crowd roars more loudly than anything she can remember. It’s a standing ovation, not that she knows it right away. Her eyes are fixed shut, lost in the feeling of it. She’s immediately pulled upright into Scott’s hug, one hand pressed to her back and holding her close, the other gripped to her arm and not letting her give him an inch of room.  

"We can have everything we want," he whispers before they spin out of their hug, covering his lips from the prying eyes of their audience. When they come apart and catch eyes, there’s fierce conviction in the look that passes between them. After Sochi, after a gold and two silvers, they’d had a thousand conversations with mentors and coaches and therapists about the rest of their lives. But the one purl of wisdom that he’d latched onto (repeating it to her with an adorably awed tone the very next day) had been Babsy’s words: “The scariest thing in life is that you can have everything you want.”

He believes it. He's not afraid of it. Because they can. It's there for the taking. 

And this is a start. This is the first time that this free dance has created the capital-M “Moment” they've been yearning for. Impossible to quantify, it’s a notion that only becomes fully formed when it is realized. _That_ kind of a moment.  

She considers whether perhaps he's just relieved that they can still win. They can be in love, wholly committed to each other, and still win so convincingly, so absolutely, so spectacularly that it isn't any doubt as they skate over to the kiss and cry. 

It's a perfect score. 

They become national champions once again. Eight times over and yet it’s never meant more. And if nothing beats this feeling, maybe that’s okay. In the moment, she can’t even see the Olympics. It’s just this, here: home.

They stand together on the podium, savoring the riches of the moment as silver and bronze take their places beside them. After receiving their medals and their flowers, they pose for photographs on that top step and Tessa thinks to herself, _don't let this be the last time_. As though reading her mind, Scott's hand squeezes her neck and pulls her head to rest against his, before stroking down the length of her back as if to reassure her it won't be. _It won't be. We can have everything we want_.

Once the victory laps are skated and another round of photographs are taken, they make their way over to their family. Scott’s niece is sat on the edge of the boards, her little legs dangled over the barrier, and beside her stands a cheering mix of Moirs and Virtues all beaming with pride. Tessa makes a beeline for Kate, immediately wrapping her in a hug as though to reassure her that this time her smile is for real – it feels as good as it should. It feels spectacular.

When she looks across to Scott, knowing exactly where he’ll be without having to think about it, she’s faced with another sudden realization. 

Tessa’s never given that much thought to marriage. As other girls would try out the boys’ surnames, practicing fake signatures in class, Tessa would bristle and insist that nothing – “no boy in the world!” – would make her change her name. She was Tessa Virtue, always would be.

Naturally, the question had arisen – from family, friends and, most of all, the media – quite a few times over the years. Each time she’d brushed it off without a second thought. _No, no, still no, hell no._

It’s as she turns to see that Scott Moir has hung his gold medal around the neck of his niece that she finally thinks to herself, _I will marry this man_. It’s the first time in her life that she can imagine anyone as her husband. Not now, not soon, maybe not for a few years. But _one day_ , she thinks to herself. It’s not a dreamy thought, but a rational, almost mundane one. Acceptance that, _oh, this is what I want for my life. Not my right now. My whole life_. (Even so, it will always be Tessa Virtue.)

It’s unremarkable, really, that he’d give away a gold medal mere minutes after collecting it. It’s so typical of him. And that’s why. That’s why it stops her in her tracks. This is Scott at his most ordinary.

In the moment, she laughs it off. She continues hugging their waiting line of loyal loved ones and soaking up their final victory on Canadian soil.

Nationals – from start to finish – proves to be a dream farewell to competing in their beloved home country, with the gala providing the perfect epilogue.

He's giddy throughout the practice, showing off and larking around and so wonderfully, typically Scott that she's unable to suppress a smile as she watches. It’s as though he’s finally able to release all of the euphoria that’s been building, and she can only hope that the Olympics are as good to them as this week has been. Tessa looks on as Scott gives exaggerated cheers for Patrick when he goes to center ice, as he consoles Liubov for missing the podium, as he adds his own ridiculous embellishments to the choreography.

When it comes time for the gala itself and their solo performance, he becomes hers, just hers, once more. The music starts to play and, in an instant, they’re alone in a crowded arena.

'Long Time Running' feels as poignant as it had the very first time all those months ago at Skate Canada, and as they run through the choreography – a sequence of steps that hold 20 years of memories locked inside them – Tessa can't help but think of how much has changed since October. In some ways, nothing; in some ways, everything, her whole world. 

_It’s been a long, long, long time running. It’s well worth the wait._

When they reach the end of their exhibition program, kneeling with their foreheads pressed together and light smiles on their faces, she realizes that Scott’s feeling it too. He’s been running through the same highlight reel of memories. She takes in the sight of his warm, familiar face, as ever an open book. He places his hands gently on her neck before leaning close to whisper in her ear again. This time, he simply says, “You were worth the wait.”

Scott follows it with a kiss to her cheek and then hugs her tightly. There aren’t words for what it means to Tessa, but there’s a squeeze, there’s a smile, there’s a look.


	24. the honor of a lifetime

The morning after getting home from Nationals, they're wrapped up in the luxury of a rare, blessed long lie-in. With heavy blankets and languid limbs strewn over each other in the bed, they're woken up by the sound of a persistent alarm ringing. 

They roll apart with drawn-out groans before Scott fumbles blindly for the source of the noise, his hand eventually settling on the phone that's charging on the nightstand. Tessa stubbornly holds her ground in the bed, keeping her eyes shut as she pulls him back into his position as her body pillow. Only dimly aware of what's going on around her, she eventually opens one eye to watch him rub a lazy hand over his face and blink hard with the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" he answers, rough and groggy. Sounding uncertain, he then says, “Yes, I… Yes.” There’s a pause and then she hears a muffled voice on the other end of the line, before suddenly Scott’s scrambling to sit upright, sputtering out, “Hello, sir. Mr Trudeau. Prime Minister Trudeau?”

_What in the fuck…_

Tessa’s whole body goes rigid for a second, unable to even enjoy what a meal Scott’s making of the introductions as her eyes bulge in sheer, unbridled panic. Coming into consciousness with sudden urgency, she quickly becomes hyper-aware of the incongruity of the formalness of the call versus her extremely _in_ formal state of undress. Complete and total undress.

She reaches for the top and pants that had been haphazardly discarded the previous night while holding the sheet up to her neck, as Scott mouths, “He can’t see you!”

Tessa just jabs a finger at him accusingly, poking out a silent laugh before he watches her wrestle her way into her t-shirt. She then kicks into one of her pant legs so rigorously that it causes her to tumble clumsily out of the bed with a clunk. Scott’s concerned – though rather more amused – face appears above her as she sits up on the floor, his eyebrows arching before his attention returns to the phone call, leaving her to scramble back under the sheets unassisted. Though, not before throwing his boxers at him.

“Yes. Absolutely,” she can hear him saying, a polite fake laugh underneath it. As he one-handedly wriggles his way into his underwear, his voice remains steady: “We’re… We’re ready, ready to go. I keep forgetting we’re the old timers now; I still feel like a kid, I’m so excited just to take it all in. We’re hoping that when we’re done competing, we’ll get to see some of the other events.” There’s another pause where he stops to listen again. “Thank you.”

Then comes a long stretch where Tessa’s just watching the way Scott’s face changes, shifting and contorting in something like surprise with each new sentence he hears before he comes to life again. “What an honour,” he keeps saying, over and over, and the crinkle above her nose is forming a deeper and deeper line waiting for the explanation. “That would mean, wow, so much to both of us. Yes. And I know how much it’ll mean to Tess, and our family—ies,” he corrects quickly. “I’m speechless.” 

There’s a pause. She hears the quiet hum of speech on the line, then watches Scott hesitate with his answer before, “Yes, she is. Tessa’s… Yeah. I’ll put you on speaker.” 

Again, Tessa’s eyes bug out.

A tad louder than she needs to be, she greets, “Prime Minister Trudeau.”

“Tessa, it’s a pleasure to speak to you,” he says, with the mix of formal and friendly that she doesn’t feel she’s quite mastering in the moment. “I, uh, I don’t know how much you heard of my conversation with Scott, but I called you because I have the great privilege to ask you both to represent Canada at the opening ceremony next month by carrying our flag.”

Scott looks up at her with a smile so wide it almost makes his eyes disappear as their prime minister continues: “You both embody the spirit of the Games, and the values of our country. Your achievements throughout your career have been a joy to watch, and your comeback has inspired and entertained so many people here and around the world, including so many young Canadians – some of whom may themselves someday hope to represent Canada at the Olympics. As we look forward to a new chapter in our country’s history, especially when I think about the change to our national anthem, I can’t think of a better way to set the tone for our Canadian Olympic team. You’d be the first man and woman to carry the flag together, sending a message of unity and equality on behalf of the entire country. With that in mind, I’d like to ask you to, together, captain Team Canada in Pyeongchang and lead the way for all of our athletes.”

There’s a silence as the speech – far more persuasive than it ever needed to be – settles in their minds. Tessa takes a minute to talk herself out of replying with a goofy “You had me at ‘Tessa’” quip, half-expecting Scott to interrupt. But he waits for her to process the news, holding back except to move a loose lock of hair from her face to get a better view of her reaction.

“That’s… incredible. It’ll be the honour of a lifetime, truly. I don’t quite know what to say,” she says eventually in a laugh, tears sparkling in her eyes. She catches sight of the emotions etched all over Scott’s face and has to look away, not giving him eye contact as he puts a hand to her face, his thumb brushing away the dampness on her cheek before leaving a gentle kiss there.

On the phone, they can hear their prime minister continuing, “Congratulations to you both. I know you’ll do an incredible job.”

He finishes up by explaining a few of the technicalities and commitments, mentioning that the call would be followed up with an email to detail the dates and information regarding their duties.

“Thank you, thank you,” they’re saying over each other as the call finishes, and then they’re alone again.

As soon as the line goes dead, Scott pounces excitably, pulling her down into their bed until he’s propped up on one elbow and leaning over her. The cool silver of his chain teases her skin where it hangs over her. He gives a generous sprinkle of kisses across her cheek before he finds her lips, tenderly brushing over them before dropping a peck. He pulls away only to smile, then kisses her again. 

After savouring the first one, she taps his arm amidst the second one, suddenly protesting, “You told him I was with you!” 

“He doesn’t know we’re in bed, T. It’s,” he twists to look at the phone screen, reading, “9.30am! There’s every chance we’d be training together anyway.”

She settles a little at that, before noticing a sly grin creeping across Scott’s face. “What?” 

“Well, I think if anything gave us away, it was probably me answering your phone,” he suggests, dangling the all-too-familiar iPhone in front of her as she rolls her head back and crashes against the pillow.

“Scott!”

“It was an accident.” 

“So much for keeping this on the down-low. The _prime minister_ knows?” Tessa follows it with a mortified groan.

“Tess, I imagine he keeps far more important secrets than this. Anyway, maybe he didn’t think anything of it!”

She covers her face with her palm, muffling, “I can’t believe Justin Trudeau called me while I’m lying naked in bed with you.”

“I’m sure he’d see that it’s all for the good of the Canadian people,” Scott reassures her, lifting her hand away so she can appreciate his pearly white smile. (That cheesy grin can’t save him now.)

“It’s for the good of the Canadian people – and one Canadian person in particular,” she gives him another poke then, “that they do not find out about this!”

He gives her a moment to wince at the thought before stroking a hand along her arm and reminding her, “Hey. We’re carrying the flag, T. Me and you. Together.”

She smiles up at him then; it’s too irresistible not to. He earns a grateful, awed smile as she takes in every feature – the scars of his teenage skin, the hint of a shadow growing in, the lines that mark out 20 years. “Me and you.”

“Good thing we came out of retirement, eh?” he points out, punctuating it with a silent laugh, scrunching up his face to interrupt her rapt study. It’s the kind of expression that cues up her giggles, and once he’s got her started, Scott shifts to stand up on the mattress above her. He pounds his chest for a minute and then starts jumping around her with his feet landing either side of her legs, repeating, “We’re going to the Olympics!”

Scott then puts on the voice of the announcer: “Representing Canada, Tessa Virtuuuue,” he drags out the last syllable, “and Scott Moir!”

“Scott!” she calls up to him, laughing too much for it to sound like much of an objection. Her hand stretches out to gesture for calm, but he just grabs it and pulls her up with him.

“Come on, T!”

“I’m not… I’m not jumping! Not on my mattress,” she insists, and he can see she’s too stubborn to move an inch, so he hops off the bed – her side – and then pulls her onto his back in a precarious, only half-willing piggyback. “Oh my god, I’m barely awake, Scott! Scott!”

He ignores her, a spring in every step it takes to reach the kitchen, where he drops her off on the kitchen counter, her legs swinging where they dangle over the edge. Backing away as her eyes watch him carefully, he’s in the middle of saying, “My partner, my co-captain, my love,” as he places one hand over his heart and, with the other, reaches for the pastel-coloured, retro-inspired portable radio that Jordan had gifted her sister for Christmas a year earlier. “I think,” he pauses dramatically to give her his best puppy eyes, “this calls for a celebratory dance.”

It’s tuned to an oldies station and Scott’s face instantly creases up as the opening bars of ‘Thank You for Being a Friend’ burst out of the speakers for them.

“ _Thank you for being a friend, traveled down the road and back again,_ ” he’s singing as he lifts her off the countertop, pulling her into a dance hold so that they sway together around her kitchen.

Tessa’s sleepy resistance dies away quickly. It turns out that there’s no place she’d rather be than in his warm arms, being swung around with gusto as the radio crackles softly in the background. She even joins in quietly to sing along, “ _I’m not ashamed to say, I hope it’ll always stay this way_ …”

Quick to sense her surrender, Scott stretches out his arm for her to spin, then pulls her back for a dip.

“You’re ridiculous!” she tells him, but there’s no bite to it; she throws her head back, unable to shake off the great big smile he’s planted on her face.

That smile and the spring in her step carry her through the rest of the morning. A supposed day off, like most of Tessa’s, it largely involves working through her emails, sorting out arrangements for the next few days and making her way through as many chapters of her novel as she can squeeze in before Scott comes back from running errands. _Unlike_ most of her days off, it also involves calling her mother to let her know that Prime Minister Justin Trudeau has asked them to carry the Canadian flag into the opening ceremony.

It’s in the middle of explaining all to Kate that Tessa receives the official confirmation email, outlining the details that the prime minister had touched upon briefly. Her eyes scan the wording, prompting her to remind her mother, “You won’t be able to tell anyone until the official announcement."

“Who else knows?”

“Well, I guess Scott’ll tell Alma. And we spoke to Marie and Patch earlier just to work the commitments around the schedule,” she explains.

“Have you done anything to celebrate?” 

Thinking back to their impromptu kitchen dance party, she smiles to herself before replying, “No, not yet. We’ll have to think of something.”

And they hang up not long after, leaving Tessa to check over the schedules that B2Ten have sent them both for the next month.

When Scott gets home, he finds her cozily camped out on the couch. Tessa’s laptop is balanced on the arm of the sofa, her coffee’s next to her feet on the table, her book is upside down on the cushion beside her. The oversized ‘CANADA’ hoodie she’s lifted from his clothes pile swallows her figure, but when she glances up at him as she pulls her hair free from the neck so that splays around her shoulders, he looks back at her like a groom catching that first glimpse of his bride. There’s a smug smile pulling at his lips; it’s the one she loves most of all, the one that says he can’t quite believe his luck. And it proves impossible to suppress a coy grin of her own because she can’t believe her luck either.

“I like it,” Scott says, gesturing to the hoodie as he approaches her. He leans down to give her a peck on the lips, before adding: “Virtch rocking the merch.”

“It’s yours,” she wryly points out, watching him move her book onto the coffee table so that he can crash down onto the sofa next to her. “Hey, have you called anyone about us carrying the flag?”

“Uh, Mom.”

“Just Alma?”

“Well, yeah. She’s gonna let the others know, I think,” Scott says offhandedly, totally casual, like he hasn’t just gone against exactly what they’ve unwittingly agreed to: another secret. His palm settles on her thigh, stroking slowly up and down as he sinks into the cushions.

“ _Scott_.”

“Tessa.”

She glares and he glares back.

“Scott, we’re supposed to not tell anyone right away.”

He lets out a vocal sigh, before sliding down until he’s resting his temple on her shoulder. “Shall we just move to a bunker? I’ll build an underground rink like the Hartwall practice rink and we’ll just skate around on our own and never speak to another human again?”

“You definitely don’t have the skillset for that,” she replies, utterly deadpan. “And you’re very dramatic.”

“So, do you want me to call her up and tell her she has to keep it a secret? My very proud mother who’s supported both of us our whole careers?”

“No,” she says flatly, rolling her eyes, “I’ve already called her. I just wanted to check that you hadn’t told anyone else. I thought you might’ve called—”

“Chiddy.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, and Buttle knows.”

“How?”

“We were texting. There were emojis.”

“ _Scott_.” 

“They’re trustworthy! I trust them. And look,” he says, shifting onto his other side to pull his phone out of his pocket and then wave it in her direction. “Jeff used the zippy mouth face man. Secret’s safe.”

“I know but… we were asked to keep it quiet and I just feel… guilty,” she says, wincing a little in some mix of type-A shame and genuine worry. “It’s the prime minister.”

“It’ll be fiiiiine. It's another, what, 24 hours?” 

“Listen,” she says, getting serious. “I love you, Scott Moir. From the bottom of my heart, I really do.” Tessa leaves a dramatic pause, watching Scott’s eyebrows rise in anticipation. With her hand on her heart, she finishes, “But you’re an absolute liability.”

“You love me anyway,” he replies, ever so pleased with himself. There’s a kiss at the end of it too, firm and confident and too much to resist.

“For that, you’re making me dinner tonight.”

Sounding comically petulant, he whines, “But I’ve gotta have the other—”

She shrugs. “You can handle both meals, kiddo. And a foot massage.”

“The things I do for you.”

“Will you help me win a gold medal too while you’re at it?”

He gives her a salute, then a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m quite aware that maybe the least realistic part of this fic is that Tessa has yet to feed herself once. Whatever! The sight of Scott Moir with a tea towel slung over his shoulder is a powerful one, not to be under-estimated. 
> 
> Also, you might’ve noticed that I finally listed a chapter count! Hooray for planning. It’s not 100% written, completed, filed, etc. so it is still subject to some change, but the plan is the plan. We’ve got about five chapters to go – I don’t know if that’s comforting or troubling news for you, but I’m hoping to finally win over the ‘I don’t read unfinished fics’ squad soon. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading and continuing to spur me on with lovely comments, amazing insights and hilarious reaction tweets.


	25. play it again

It’s a matter of days before they leave for the Olympics.

That's when Tessa starts consciously counting the last of her ‘lasts’. Last workout with Sam. Last meeting with the entire B2Ten team sat around the table. Last pre-training carpool karaoke.

And there are the ‘best before’ dates too. As the labels on her groceries start to outdate the Olympics, it stirs a strange feeling in her stomach. ‘Best before March 2018.’  _Well, how much will be different by then?_  For so long, her timeline has only taken her to February. The very idea of life after it is something new. Exciting and scary in equal measure.

As she walks out of the changing rooms in her freshly laundered Adidas kit to replace the Mathieu Caron one-piece she’d been training in that morning, Tessa feels compelled to take in her surroundings a little more than usual. There’s so little time left here in this home that they’ve found for themselves.

They’ll be back. For show practice, perhaps even for coaching, but never quite like this.

Everything had been so fresh and new when they’d arrived in Montreal, a city untouched by past indiscretions and missed opportunities. Gadbois had been carte blanche. A new life. A chance to do it all again, learning from old mistakes and new mentors. And, for the most part, they’d done what they set out to do. They’d devoted two years of their lives to a dream built right here, to proving there was more to give. There was. She remembers Scott’s words when they’d been asked to carry the flag: “Good thing we came out of retirement, eh?”  _Damn good thing_. 

When Tessa walks back into the rink itself, there are a few different teams out on the ice – skating in different directions, only just missing one another. (She tenses as two skaters narrowly avoid a clash.)

This is the rink where they’d done most of the work.

 _This is where we fell in love all over again. This is where we shaped it into something that could last._  

She knows from one glance at the clock on her phone that Scott’s with the osteopath. Their routines, even little, one-off appointments, are learned by heart; they’re embedded in each other’s minds like actors who’ve learned their co-star’s lines just in case they need the prompt. Just in case.

Tessa lingers at the boards, watching as young teams unburdened by Olympic anxiety glide breezily around the ice. Maybe it only looks breezy, maybe beneath their focused façade, they’re secretly putting on a show – for Marie-France, for each other, for the Olympic gold medallist whose highly sought after attention they finally hold in their grasp. Tessa can’t remember what it’s like not to have the Olympics looming, not to have the thrum of pressure building and building in the background of her life like an ascendant Shepard tone never letting up.

Besides Madi and Zach, who are deep in conversation with Patrice, the teams practicing in front of her aren’t going to Pyeongchang. Maybe they’ll go to Beijing, maybe they’ll never get to skate over those five rings. Most people never know that feeling. It’s a feeling that ties her to Scott, its grip tightening as they get closer and closer.

Not knowing if they’re even aware she’s there, Tessa stays to watch a young team finish their run-through. It feels polite to see it to the end, and when they hit their end position, smiling forced smiles as they pant through gritted teeth, she notices the female partner’s eyes drift in her direction. Tessa lifts her hands to clap them and smiles brightly, watching as the girl’s face lights up before she turns to hug her partner like they’ve just won Worlds.

It’s a reminder of how much it all means.

There’s a legacy to consider, a country to inspire, a world watching. Right now, though, with only a matter of days in between her and that highest of podiums, she feels ready for all of it. They’re ready, she realizes. As ready as a person can be.

This is it: the journey’s end.

She can see those five gold rings on the horizon coming into focus. 

While on the outside she’s as composed as ever, beneath the façade she feels a rush of giddy excitement and nervous energy hit her in a wave. She hurries down the halls to see Scott – because he hates osteopath anyway, so company would only be a welcome distraction.

Tessa gives a double knock before opening the door.

“Hey,” Scott says, straining his neck to see who it is. He brightens instantly, unmistakably, when he sees that it’s Tessa. “Everything okay?” 

“Yeah,” she reassures him, leaning to give a little kiss to his forehead before softly running her hands through his hair. Dave – in the middle of elevating Scott’s leg to manipulate his calf – takes no notice at all. “Are you okay?”

“Few niggles in my old age,” he replies with a typically theatrical tone. More seriously, as though to ward off any real concern, he adds, “I’m fine.”

“I was just out there watching some of the juniors,” Tessa starts to tell him, picking up his towel and phone from a chair near the end of the table so that she can sit down. “Hey, you’ve got some missed calls.”

“Yeah, thing keeps buzzing. Who is it?”

“Your mom.”

“Really?” It comes out strained as he feels the osteopath applies sudden pressure to a particular sore point.

“There’s a voicemail.”

“Can you put it on speaker?” he says casually, unfazed by the prospect of Tessa and their osteopath overhearing whatever his mother has to say to him. Tessa’s concerned curiosity compels her to do what he asks without hesitation.

Sitting just out of Scott’s reach, Tessa calls his voicemail to retrieve the message. She taps in her own birthday instinctively, then hits speaker as Alma’s voice starts: “Sorry honey, I’m just calling because I can’t find the email you sent me with all of our flight information. Should I ask Cara? Maybe I should call Cara…” They hear a few ponderous hums, before: “Oh, and I also wanted to let you know Charlie had his leave confirmed at the station. Call me sometime this week, okay? I just want to check in. I know you’re busy. I love you. We all can’t wait to see you! I love you. Oh, it’s Mom, by the way! Okay. Love you.”

A beep signals the end of the message, and Tessa laughs it off.

“You need to call your mother,” she tells him, but the sharpness of her reprimand is undone by the softness of her touch as she leans over to stroke through his hair. It’s some small consolation for the excruciating pain of having Dave dig his weight down into the various tight muscles up and down Scott’s legs.

Without Tessa hitting another button, the phone alerts them to the other messages that are stored in his voicemail. After Scott lets out a little whimper under Dave’s uncompromising hands, they hear the peppy voice of his niece saying, “Hello Uncle Scott, it’s Q. Daddy let me borrow his phone because I wanted to tell you how good you did with your dancing, and even though you fell down, you got back up. That was the best of all, Uncle Scott. Mrs Rose at school says it doesn’t matter how many times you fall as long as you get back up.”

Tessa watches Scott’s face react to it, enjoying the way his expression transforms from a pained grimace to a warm smile.  _Softie_.

“It’s good that you had Tessa to hold your hand too because it’s easier to get back up then, Uncle Scott. She did a really good job and she looked so pretty – almost like a princess. Daddy said he could make me look like a princess on ice but I don’t really believe him so I think you should come with us.” Scott leans his head back to beam at Tessa. “I know  _you_  can do it because you can do anything. And I think Tessa should come too, in case if I fall down because I’m very clumsy. I fell and hurt my knee at school today even, and I got back up just like you did. Lily Brown from the other class helped me up.”

There’s a pause where they can hear a low muttering that Tessa can only assume is Charlie urging her to wrap things up before they hear, “Okay, well, I love you, Uncle Scott, and I hope you didn’t hurt yourself. I’m proud of you for winning your medal again and I really want to give you a squeezy hug like you always give me.”

Tessa knows why he’d kept this one. She can imagine the smile that would’ve swept across his face the first time he heard it. His little Q.

She can remember how frustrated he was with himself after Worlds. She can remember the look on his face when he’d shown up at her hotel room door at 2:45am to say, “I just needed my best friend.” She wonders how many times he’d listened to his niece’s voicemail before he’d come to her that night, before he’d climbed into Tessa’s bed and held her until he fell asleep.

She’s still basking in the sweetness of the message when she gets blindsided by the next one. Another time capsule, this one a grenade.

“Hey, it’s me,” says Tessa’s voice – strained and tight, and nothing like Tessa, the Tessa that’s here and now.

Scott fumbles quickly to reach for the phone in her hand but she’s quick to pull it away. Her expression marked by determined curiosity, Scott's urgency dies away when he looks up at her. His eyes are pleading with her, but she can tell he’s resigned to it. If she wants to listen to this, that’s up to her.

Tessa can see the way his jaw grinds as the message plays out. His osteopath, reading the room immediately, mutters something about needing to go get something (no specifics given), and they're suddenly left alone.

“I… I don’t really know how to start this message. I figured it would just come to me when you answered but, uh…” There’s a long pause then, and Tessa thinks she can hear herself swallow, but maybe it’s nothing more than a memory. “Scott, I don’t want to ignore it anymore. I really… I think we could be happy. If you already are then that’s… that’s really all I want, so please don’t jeopardize that for a minute, but if you’re not then maybe we shouldn’t ignore it anymore. I’m so tired of ignoring it and pushing it away, Scott. I miss you.”

She knows that when the line goes dead, she’d started to cry. She wonders if Scott knows – or, at least, suspects – the same.

There’s a long, suffocating silence before she manages to speak up.

"You—you still have it?"

Scott sits up properly on the edge of the table, his hands roughly running through his hair as he tries to articulate a reply. “I… I listened to it so many times, Tess. I meant it when I said that it’s what got me here. It was my fucking… wake up call.”

She isn’t looking at him; she can’t. 

Scott fixes his gaze on the sports science certifications on the wall behind her head instead, telling them,"I haven't listened to it since that night at yours, when we finally…” 

As his sentences trails off, his eyes drift back to her. Tessa's not crying now. She's not crying quite yet, but the waterlines of her eyes are marked out in a sharp, halting red and her nose bunches.

"It's fine. It's fine, Scott," she replies, and it's cold and flat. Her eyes are still fixated on the phone in her hand.

His head bows, his chin tucking tight to his chest. “Please don’t shut me out, T. Don’t—"

“I know.” She gives a weary sigh. “I know we have the Olympics in—"

“Not because of the Olympics. Fuck, Tessa,” he erupts, the sound of her name, his exasperation thick as it almost spits out, hits her like burning debris. Scott rolls himself off the table to kneel at her feet, reaching a hand up to her face in an attempt to get her too look him in the eye. “Not because of the Olympics. Because I need you. Not for a fucking medal, for my life.”

The curse of it comes out coarse and vehement.

Softer, as he seems to get a hold of his emotions, he levels it out with, "It's not fine, T. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that it took me so long.” He breathes out something so heavy, it’s like the breath has been chasing and chasing him, only now catching up. “Even now that we're doing this, I know I should've been better to you."

"It's just hearing it back," Tessa explains, each word teetering on the edge of restraint. Her throat is tight, constricted by the suffocating memory of another version of herself. It's a Tessa who doesn't know the ending, who doesn't know the way this story unfolds, no matter how much she wishes she could flick to the last page. The peace she finds in the present means she doesn’t need endings anymore; she’d rather linger on every page, savouring each word, each detail of their story because she hopes the end won’t come at all. After wanting closure for so long, now the happiness lives inside an unknown infinity – today, tomorrow, the next day and so on until they’re old and grey.

"I really..." She breaks to clear her throat. Scott edges closer, one hand tenderly tucking her hair behind her ear and the other on her knee, urging her to speak. "I really felt like maybe I wasn't gonna get this part. I think, in the back of my mind, all that time, I’d always assumed that eventually the happy ending would come.” Her intonation lifts at the end like it's a question. "Until then. Until we were in Scotland and I saw you again properly. And it felt like, maybe I'd been wrong. Maybe the rest of it wasn't our build-up after all, but just... background noise.

“I think you would've been happy,” she admits, delivering the words on the wave of a sigh. “Somehow, someday. I think you could've married someone else and had a family, and lived that life comfortably.”

He doesn’t have the presence of mind to shake his head. He’s still kneeling in front of her, his mouth slightly agape as he processes every word she says. Absently, his hand strokes a steady rhythm along the side of her thigh. He knows how to listen. She can’t help but admire the way he listens with his entire focus trained on her, his eyes watching her delivery, his ears examining every strain in her voice, his touch sensitive to unconscious reflexes that might give her truth away. 

“That trip made me realize that…” She pauses briefly to clear her throat. “That would never be true for me.”

Confessing it feels like a release. In front of her, he’s seeking out her gaze with single-minded focus. Tessa holds his face in her hands before bowing her head to rest her forehead to his.

“And hearing how vulnerable I was, how empty I felt – it makes me realize how much we have now, but it’s scary… how much I almost missed out on.” She laughs as she says it – a dry laugh, thick with emotion. He wipes a tear from her cheek before her hand can reach it, before the path of it can tickle along her skin. “It’s really… everything, Scott.” And then she adds, because she’s careful, because she doesn’t like to assume, because sometimes insecurity creeps in and she’s still a teenage girl looking at him adoringly with great big green eyes, “ _To me_.”

Scott shifts his weight forward to lift himself up to meet her. The hand he’d had on her cheek, with fingertips teasing into her hair, slides to the back of her neck. The touch of him there pulls her to him instinctively, drawing her in just as he’d so clearly intended.

He kisses her temple, her forehead, her cheek. He moves back to look at her and then kisses her on the lips, delicate and slow.

“I have to tell you something,” he whispers, his voice more raw than it was.

She gives an almost imperceptible nod before he continues, “Tess, I… The first time I heard that message, I was at my parents’ house. We were having some party because Danny was home and the kids were there, and… it was the kind of party that you might’ve come to. But you weren’t there.

“Cara had to explain to me how to get my damn voicemail to work on my new phone because it kept… it kept asking me for a pin, or some password. We were in my mom and dad’s kitchen. Everyone was there and my brothers were arguing over the remote in the background, and it was so noisy, I had to go outside to hear what you were saying.

“I went out onto the front steps and,” he breathes in sharply, “before you'd even finished, I ran back in, grabbed my keys and... I drove to your house that day. I drove to London, not even thinking about whether you'd be home.”

His whole body crumples in a sigh as he says, “And then you weren't.”

She doesn’t interrupt to explain that she was at Jordan’s that day. She hadn’t been able to face going home to her big, empty house – with too much and not enough of him in it. She’d slept in her sister’s spare room, tucked up in a strange bed with her head on one pillow and her phone balanced ceremonially on the other. The phone that never rang. 

"I sat on your doorstep for a while, realizing you must be at your mom's or in Toronto, or... I didn't know,” he spits out, and the memory of it still stings. His hands are restless in her lap, stroking her legs as though attempting to counteract the melancholy of his words. “I didn't have a fucking clue where you were. And it was the first time that'd ever happened, really.

"I didn't know how to say it on the phone. It was too much. It was too much, and we weren't even really  _us_  anymore, you know?”

Tessa moves her hands to settle them flat over his, stilling them at a touch.

"As soon as I got to your house and you weren't there, I was on my own. And I realized… I deserved to be. And you deserved better. But I shouldn't have let you think it was you. You were never the problem. I'm sorry," he repeats. “I’m so sorry, T.”

"Scott,” she says his name – precious and delicate and hers – before moving a gentle hand to his cheek to bring him back to her. And back to this moment, now. She feels him smile into it, watches his eyes soften as his gaze dances over her face. “I don't want you to be sorry. Be happy. Be happy with me."

He lets out a laugh of relief, then kisses her. Because he can.

When they pull apart – and it is only a short, grateful press of a kiss – Tessa finds her voice again: “I thought it was the biggest mistake I ever made. I think I managed to convince myself it was some weird fever dream, that I never actually called you that day. And it's overwhelming, in a way, to know now that it was... meaningful. Necessary, even, for us to get here. Does that make any sense?”

“Makes sense to me,” he replies, his eyes raking over her – dark; it’s a gaze so heavy, she can almost feel the touch of it brushing over her skin.

“I’m glad you told me. About that day.”

His thumb gently brushes along her neck, just below her jawline on the tender skin where he usually likes to bury his face as he moves inside her. The touch is so delicate that it draws out a sharp breath, her chest heaving between them as her hand rests over his heart. She can feel goosebumps spread from her arms to the base of her spine, a wildfire that just needs to burn itself out.

“We fucking made it, Tessa,” he says. A rough whisper. “Think about all of it, all the shit we’ve been through – and we managed to end up here, together.”

“Yeah,” rushes out of her in a disbelieving laugh.

“I’m so in love with you.”

Her body convulses just slightly, like a hiccup of a sob. Relief. Because the rawness in his voice, the way it comes out rough and unpracticed, the edges of it not yet filed down with familiarity – that’s how it feels to hear another person put words to a feeling,  _her_  feeling. That’s how it feels to know that it’s returned just as deeply.

He carries on like it weighs nothing at all.

“And we’re gonna have the best month of our lives, eh? We’re gonna carry the flag, and skate on Olympic ice again. We’ll have Marie and Patch with us. And how many people, really, get to do it all with their…” He thinks about how to name it, searches his mind for the word. “… _Tessa_?”

“I’ve never felt so ready. We’ve never been so prepared,” she replies, carrying his sentiment along.

“It all worked out right.”

“Yeah,” she realizes.  _It really did_.

Win or lose, they’ll win.

It makes her smile, a bright, tearful smile, when he suggests, “Hey, I was thinking of taking a walk here. Just… while we still have the chance, eh. I’ve been feeling a little sentimental. You wanna join me? After Dave comes back from whatever made-up thing he ran away to do.”

“Yes.”

And walking the same path she’d earlier walked alone, she lets Scott lead her around the building to take it all in properly – one last time. They move slowly and in contented silence for a while, with her head resting on his shoulder. Their hands hold tight to each other in that particular way that they naturally fit together – her pinky between his index and middle fingers, while her other hand holds his forearm.  

“Scott?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you delete that voicemail now?”

He hesitates, and she can tell he’s reluctant. To delete the haunting memory. And to disobey her request. She turns her face up to his and watches him chew on his lip, avoiding her gaze as he considers her request.

“I don’t want you to torture yourself with it forever. It’s done now, Scott. It’s done,” she insists softly, her palm turning his face back up to hers with a gentle touch.

“Okay,” he replies eventually, his voice small.

And then he does.

And a few hours later, she thinks of the look on his face and the reluctance she’d seen there. He’s fast asleep beside her, one arm hanging limply out of the bed as his body folds in on itself, lost to a sleep deeper than she might ever have experienced.

After leaning over to check he’s definitely out – and he is, she can tell by the steady rhythm of his breathing – Tessa carefully slides out of her side of the bed, laying the comforter down again just so. She checks he’s still fast asleep and undisturbed, picks up her phone then walks around to his side and takes his too before sneaking off to the bathroom.

Perching on the edge of the bath, she taps his name on her screen, then watches his light up: “Tessa Virtue calling”.

“Hey, it’s me,” she starts, suddenly a little unsure of herself – things change but others stay the same. “I understand why you wanted to keep my message, I think. And I wanted to leave you something so that whenever you want to remind yourself to stay on course, it’s here. I’m not sad or empty or lost. I’m happy and fulfilled and found. I’m yours. Always will be. So, play it and play it again, or call me and I’ll answer,” she says, giggling quietly to herself. “I love you. So, let’s look forward, not back.”

There’s a pause before she finishes, “Okay, it’s cold and I miss you so I’m going back to bed now. See you in the morning, love.”

Tessa hangs up the phone and watches the voicemail alert appear on his screen in her other hand. She tiptoes back into the bedroom, setting the two devices back to where they were, then swiftly slides back into their bed. The movement on the mattress prompts Scott to stir, but he only twists to face her, never opening his eyes. She hears a sleepy moan escape him as he cozies into her side, loosely wrapping his arm around her.

She kisses the top of his head before snuggling down against him and closing her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, if you're still here after 25 chapters, just know I'm really grateful! I hope this tides you over until that next TYCT update comes along.


	26. team within a team

The first week goes by faster than they’d like. They carry the flag amidst a sea of red and white, bright smiles fixed to their expressions and the weight of it shared between the two of them. Tessa carrying it first, as he’d so warmly insisted. 

“We have to hold onto this feeling, harness it,” Scott commands the team in a post-ceremony huddle. Tessa stays quiet, soaking up the energy, the elation, the excitement – and all that possibility. As she looks around at her fellow athletes, she thinks, _we’re going to do it._

And they do. Together, as a team.

Surrounded by Team Canada, Scott's in his element. Tessa savours it all too, just as they'd planned: the atmosphere, the patriotism, the camaraderie, all of it. She consciously feels every moment they spend in the Olympic Village transpose into a memory, developing like instant photographs. She said she'd relish it all – so she will. But for Scott, it seems so effortless. He goes from one half of their team to man of the people at the flick of a switch. Sharing him is an adjustment. They've been in Montreal for so long, shaping their lives around each other, with every separation penciled in well in advance. Now, to be one of many – a team within a team – it's something new.

Never a natural among the masses, she can’t help but feel the loss of him. He'd been the same in Vancouver and Sochi, and every time they've ever walked into a room filled with teammates and friends, but it's a unique feeling now that they belong to each other in a different way. He's devotedly been by her side, centring on her for the duration of their comeback. Suddenly he belongs to everyone. He's not the same as he was, not so boisterous, not so unpredictable, not so hot-headed, but the differences between them are thrown into sharp relief in this environment. 

Tessa leaves him to enjoy the freedom of his Olympic experience. She watches him release. It comes so naturally to him: human totem poles, bus singalongs, motivational speeches.

The pride of watching him lead and entertain and support the rest of their compatriots eases her longing. She catches him whispering quiet encouragement to Kaetlyn, and warmly patting Andrew on the back, and throwing his head back in laughter as Patrick attempts to prank Eric.

Between moments of silliness with their Team Canada family and amidst the camaraderie of the team event, he always returns to Tessa. He's careful not to miss her after dinner before she goes to her room with Kaitlyn, making sure to say  _goodnight, T_  and  _I love you_  and  _don't let it get too wild in there_. He's careful to hold her, even as they stand as a team, to take a moment that's theirs and theirs alone even in the midst of all of it. He's careful to prove that he’ll always find her in a crowd. So careful, in fact, she almost wants to remind him that a few hours apart won't break them. But she’s too glad for it all to protest his attention.

Eric seems to catch every little look, touch, smile. They can't conceal them quick enough; many of them are unconscious anyway, drifting out of their control.

When they win together, the emotions of claiming a team gold for Canada feel more overwhelming than she anticipates. It had been a matter of duty, of giving as much of themselves to their nation as possible, and they’d been able to skate their free dance with an unusual absence of pressure thanks to the team’s overall lead. But now, standing on the top of the podium at another Olympic Games, with friends she’s grown up with and the love of her life by her side, it starts to feel like the most spectacular achievement of all.

It piques her determination for more, for the fairytale, the whole damn fairytale. Gold begets gold, another gold. Just one more gold.

And she can’t stop touching it, the cool metal of the Pyeongchang medal making her fingers tingle. It’s that perfectly right weight pulling at her neck, the satisfying heft that so many of their medals lack – but not Vancouver, and not now. Significant but not burdensome. It’s designed to drape perfectly, its weight a constant reminder of what they’ve done – Tessa, Scott, Eric, Meagan, Patrick, Kaetlyn and Gabby. All of them.

It’s a reminder of what’s left to do, too.

First, however, there comes a night of press interviews that fast descend into delirious chaos. The giddy exhilaration of their win carries them through, with the thought of escape – Seoul – in the back of Tessa’s mind as she starts to lag.

The next day, mercifully, she’s granted a rare lie-in before they leave the Olympic Village. Scott comes to her room shortly before lunchtime, crashing out on her bed as Kaitlyn and Tessa flit around him to belatedly get themselves ready for their respective days. It passes without comment. If Kaitlyn notices any differences in their relationship since the last time she and Tessa had shared a room, she decides to keep that to herself.

"Even Andrew managed to wait until lunch," Tessa mutters to him without moving her lips as they walk into the food hall after.

"I'm very weak," he replies with a laugh. "And I missed you. Barely saw you yesterday."

"We were together all day,” she points out. _Ridiculous man_. “And then you were busy, or asleep.” It’s not sharp or passive aggressive, simply a matter of fact. It’s meant with patient understanding, a calm she hopes he hears. There’s a breezy smile at the end of it, just in case he doesn’t.

Nevertheless, Scott protests, "Never too busy for you."

"I don't want to spoil your fun."

"You couldn't," he’s quick to reply, and she catches the way his hand goes to reach for her before he remembers where they are and pulls back.

Tessa stops to look at him, smiling a little coyly. "Okay."

"Okay,” he affirms, finally relaxing enough to eye up his food options.

Not long after lunch, they set off for a few days away from the chaos of the Olympic Village. Their first 24 hours in Seoul are consumed by sleep. They sleep most of the way in the car before transferring their drowsy bodies to Tessa’s hotel room. She watches him collapse onto her hotel-fresh king-size bed, crashing down against a wall of perfectly arranged decorative pillows with abandon. One by one, he pulls them out from underneath him, letting them fly across to where she carefully picks each one up to re-home them on the armchair.

Once Scott is comfortable, he opens his eyes to charm his way back into her good books with a sleepy grin. It’s enough to win her over instantly, tempting her to curl up inside his embrace before they fall back asleep together.

And that’s all it is, Seoul: sleeping, then skating.

Due to some frustratingly stringent scientific reasoning, relating to energy management and avoidance of unnecessary emotional fluctuations, they decide to keep sex out of it. Tiredness minimizes any risk of misconduct for the first couple of days, and then comes focus.

They quickly adjust to a razor-sharp, single-minded competitive focus that’s reserved only for the Olympics. It’s too intense to ever exist outside of the quadrennial moment, with every attention turned to that single event. The unifying nature of their near-monomaniacal focus makes them more relaxed on the ice than off it in those magical few days inside their bubble. They glide happily together, running through every step, rediscovering the intimacy of their professional partnership, still breaking apart the choreography with Patrice in search of every point they can get. _This is us at our peak_ , she reflects, as Scott scribbles down notes at the boards beside her.

On their last night before heading back to the Village, back to scheduled practice alongside their competitors, she’s lying over him on the couch in their hotel room. Her glasses are on – the ones he’d once mockingly compared to Pam Beesly’s “old lady glasses” – and she’s got her head buried in a book. Scott’s caught between her legs, his hand absently stroking up and down her calf. Their touching is thoughtless, instinctive, lazy. His eyes are heavy as his head lies propped against the line of the sofa cushion, but they fix on her between long, heavy blinks. She notices after a while, peering over the top of the hardback in her hands. A smile appears on his face the moment she meets his gaze.

“Sleepy?” she asks, the corner of her lips quirking up on one side as she surrenders to his attentions.

He gives a shrug. Tessa edges closer, sitting upright and slipping her arm along his shoulders. Her hand settles in his hair, tugging gently on thick, soft handfuls.

“You should go to bed,” she suggests softly, her words carrying the lilting cadence of a lullaby. He closes his eyes to them, just for a moment.

“I like being here with you.”

“Okay,” Tessa accepts, her nose bunching a little in a blush. A happy little moan escapes her then and she kisses him to cover it up. It’s a little peck of a kiss.

“We’re kind of a lame couple, eh?” he says as they look at each other, curled up there on the sofa, half in sweats and half in pyjamas. 

Tessa laughs at that.

Hamming it up with added melodrama, Scott continues, “People are gonna be disappointed they’re wasting all that gossip on the two of us when they find out this is our idea of a romantic night in. I’ve got a reputation!”

“You’re not turned on by me reading quietly?”

“No, I am! I think that’s the problem,” he replies in that ridiculous way that draws out a big, loud laugh from her. “Hey, I should warn you that when I’m not training for the Olympics, I’m kind of a romantic guy.”

She wants to tell him that she knows. She wants to tell him _how_ she knows, all the moments that scatter throughout their history, that remind her this thing between them has always been there. But she also wants to tease him. “Yeah? What do I have to look forward to then?”

Scott’s eyebrows fly up in response, his hand teasingly pulling up the edge of his t-shirt to flash his abs for barely a second. She can’t help but throw her head back in another laugh, and he’s watching her with a warm – if slightly blushing – smile when she glances back at him.

He looks a little embarrassed by his momentary tease, so she takes her glasses off to playfully move them back and forth from her eyes while making a cartoonish sound effect. It has the desired effect: Scott can’t resist, pulling her fully into his lap to sweep her up in a kiss. They’ve barely got started before he’s tightening his grip on her ass and lifting them from the couch, while Tessa’s helpless to resist, melting in his arms, her giggles muffled by his lips.

Later – and it is delightfully, deliciously quite some time later – they lie sated and breathless across the bed. That big, perfectly firm bed.

“We definitely weren’t supposed to do that,” she says, turning to rest her chin on his chest and look up at him. The sentence is punctuated by a kiss between his pecs.

He’s giving himself an almost comical double chin to look down at her and she can tell he’s evaluating her expression, cautiously terse in his reply: “No.”

“It was fun,” Tessa elaborates, her lips curling to a smile as she watches him relax. It’s quite the understatement, and the arching of his eyebrows suggests he feels much the same way.

Scott laughs and says, “Yeah.” And then he shakes his head just a little and whatever he’s feeling, she knows she feels it too. _How did we get so lucky?_

Tessa moves against his side to burrow into him like a cozy pillow, wriggling to line up their bodies. Taking the hint, he stretches away to his bedside to switch off the lights, prompting a veil of darkness to fall over the room suddenly. They shift to readjust, pulling the comforter up to their shoulders, before settling to sleep.

“Do you ever think about… after?” he says all of a sudden, the volume of his voice heightened by the pitch-blackness of the room. She feels his chest move against her cheek.

Tessa replies barely above a whisper: “After?”

“Win or lose, what happens next.”

“Sometimes,” she admits, after a prolonged pause. There’s something delicate about the word, escaping her like a confession. In some ways, they’ve committed so fully to this one goal that looking beyond it feels wrong somehow.

“This is _it_ , Tess.” She feels his hand stroke gently up her back, drawing her closer to him. “That’s just… terrifying.”

“Yeah.”

“And there won’t be anymore excuses. If we mess up, we won’t have the skating to… fix it.” 

She takes in a deep breath and nods, eventually replying firmly, “We won’t mess up.”

“I’ve messed up before.”

“We won’t mess up.”

And they know they’re talking about both. The Olympics. And them. 

Just as the weight of it all is at risk of overwhelming them, Tessa pipes up with a peppy retort: “Besides, you cook a mean garlic chicken, so you have that going for you.” She can’t see him, but she knows if she could, he’d be rolling his eyes. Her tender palm guiding down his bare chest, she switches gears to continue, “And there’s always skating, Scott, even if it isn’t under the scrutiny of a judging panel. We’ll always be able to lace up our skates and take to the ice, even if just to hold hands.”

“Yeah,” he concedes. And it takes a second before he repeats himself with a little more conviction. “ _Yeah_.”

“Scott?”

“T?”

Before she says anything more, she twists to wrap her leg around his, curling her body even tighter into his embrace. It’s at once possessive and protective, and then Tessa whispers, “Whatever happens, these have been the best two years of my life.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too, kiddo. Me too.” After a thoughtful quiet, he adds, “Hey, you free tomorrow?”

“Why?” she asks, a little skeptical.

“I want to take you on a date.”

“A real date, huh? What were you thinking?”

“We could go skating. Something nice and romantic. That’s what people do, eh?” Scott’s voice goes soft, and she can’t help but imagine his smile: broad and bright, that smile that’s just for her. It stirs a warm feeling deep down inside to think of it, to consider that perhaps she might just hold another person’s happiness in her hands. Just as he holds hers in his.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” she replies, nuzzling her head into his neck ever so softly.

She feels him breathe out against her, his chest lifting and falling so noticeably that she moves with it. He says, “I know the perfect place.”

Tessa laughs in the moment, and the next day they move hand in hand across the ice of the Gangneung Ice Arena. They go through the step sequences in the practice rink, moving their bodies exactly as they’ve practiced, rehearsing now for the second to last time. It’s the perfect place: the perfect place to reclaim their title.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed! :') Only three more chapters to go!


	27. gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy an extra dose of my favourite Virtue Moir nostalgia, with that underlying wave of OMG IT ACTUALLY REALLY HAPPENED??? Pieces of this have been written since I started (you might be able to tell which) so it's nice to get this chapter out there and I really hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who's still reading this and still commenting and still talking about it. It genuinely makes my day every time one of you sends a kind message or recommends this to someone else, and it reminds me that people are still out there wanting to read this stuff. (And there were some lovely messages about the prospect of new fics from me which were a real ego boost, let me tell you. Thanks, lovely people!!)
> 
> Also, thanks to Kim for helping me find [a gifset](http://thatonekimgirl.tumblr.com/post/177684399611/one-last-time-scott-tessa-hug-before-their) of them having their pre-skate hug because I had written only vague notes to myself many months ago about it, so it was a relief to be able to check that! And also just because staring at them hugging is always good for a heavy dose of warm fuzzies.

The night before the individual event starts, Tessa finds herself lying across Kaitlyn’s bed watching a video message from her niece. She’s grateful to have someone to share in the saccharine sentiment of it, and Kaitlyn’s the perfect person. In fact, when Tessa had mentioned that Casey had texted it to her, Kaitlyn was the one to insist on watching together. (She hadn’t even waited for the ‘yes’ before shuffling over to make room in her narrow bed.)

As the video plays out, the beaming toddler jumps around in front of the camera, kitted out in a red t-shirt with an appliqued maple leaf in the center. She wishes her aunt luck and shows off a few of her own dance moves before Tessa’s sister-in-law can be heard saying, “We don’t need to do the whole routine, Poppy. We’ll show Tess when she gets back, maybe.” There’s an emphasis on the maybe.  

They watch Poppy obediently nod in response. And then a text alert from Scott appears at the top of Tessa’s screen. It says: “Poke’s not quite as good a cuddler. I miss you.”

A couple of seconds later, another one comes in: “Poje”.

Kaitlyn’s head snaps around to look at Tessa, whose eyes – widened in alarm – are fixed to the screen because _fuck, fuck, fuck_.

“Tessa?” she says, the name delivered in a singsong that drags out the vowels. It’s all mock outrage and playground teasing. _She’s enjoying this way too much_. “Are you–?”

Tessa cuts in to insist, “He’s just messing around.”

“Okay,” Kaitlyn accepts, though there isn’t a hint of belief behind it. 

Unfortunately, a third text follows. This one’s significantly less ambiguous: “P.S. I’ve had a lot of ideas about how we can make use of the free condoms.”

“Okay, _seriously_?”

“Okay,” Tessa surrenders, defeated by mounting evidence and a limited willingness to lie to her friend, “but please don’t tell _anyone_.”

“I mean, everyone sorta knows anyway. You guys aren’t subtle. But of course I won’t say anything,” Kaitlyn reassures her warmly, her eyes almost disappearing into her smile as she throws her arms around her friend. It’s a hug that Tessa didn’t even know she needed. When it comes, she finds herself squeezing back gratefully, relieved just to have someone who can empathize with the whirlwind of the moment.

“It’s new, though,” Tessa eventually explains, a little more defensive than intended.

“No,” her friend says with a knowing smile, “it isn’t.” 

“I guess… in some ways, not.”

Kaitlyn just laughs, and then says, “It’s very exciting.” She nods affirmatively, and Tessa finds it comforting that this is her response: to be so categorically positive. “I’m glad you’re happy. I… could tell.”

“Thanks Kait.”

“And you can let Scott know that Andrew’s actually a very good cuddler.” There’s a twinkle in her eye as she grins, and Tessa can’t help but burst out laughing. She relaxes after that. Really, truly relaxes.

Tessa doesn’t reply to her texts from Scott that night. They don’t talk again until it’s time to head over to the rink ahead of the short dance competition, when, instead of saying hello, she whispers to him conspiratorially, “Kaitlyn knows.”

He glances in their friend’s direction and catches a wry, knowing smile as their eyes meet across the lobby of the Canadian Olympic House. Tessa watches, wary of his reaction. He seems surprised rather than upset when he asks, “How?”

“We were watching something on my phone when your texts came up.”

“Sorry,” he winces. “Andrew knows as well.”

“How?”

“I, uh, told him.”

Tessa lightly nudges him in the arm. “Scott!”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she says eventually, giving a resigned laugh and a shrug. “Kaitlyn would’ve told him anyway. Let’s just focus on the program, eh? It’s all been about these next two days, right?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Besides, it was kinda nice to talk about it to someone,” Tessa admits, looking up to meet his gaze. Scott appears to relax at that, breathing out before his expression brightens to a big, warm grin. It’s too beautiful a sight for her not to let his minor indiscretion go.

“Yeah?” he asks, sounding uncommonly nervous.

She nods and then watches him smile to himself, a little bashfully.

Around them, some of the athletes start to head out to get on the bus that’ll take them to the venue. Everyone’s caught up in their own world, their own nerves, taking no notice of Canada’s sweethearts. It is the very last moment of that kind of public privacy – for a while, at least.

As Scott moves to walk out, she pulls him back to say, “Scott? You know I won’t just be ready the moment we finish, right?”

She speaks so quietly it pulls him in closer, almost leaning his head against hers but not quite. There’s cautious concern in the place where his smile had been. “To tell people?” 

“People we love, people we know are different.” Tessa lets out a weary sigh, her eyebrows drawing together as she carefully searches for the words. “But after this is all done, things might be kind of crazy for a while and that really… you know, it scares me. I don’t want it to change anything. I don’t want to make the whole 20 years of work about the romantic part. That’s not… We worked so hard for this.”

“Hey,” he says, voice soft as he places his hands on her cheeks, “whatever pace you want to take things, T. You’re in charge, okay?” 

She looks into his eyes for reassurance, chewing on her lip a little, and then nods.

“But you’ve got nothing to be scared of. We’re good, me and you. We’re always gonna be a team and I’ll always be here to shield you from the bullshit,” he promises. The look in his eyes makes it a promise.

She nods again, slower this time and closing her eyes as she does it. She feels him kiss her temple, before he adds, “Now I’m gonna keep my hands to myself before someone catches us. You’re a terrible influence, T.” 

That earns a pointed eye-roll, and he throws his arm around her so that they can walk in stride towards their transport. Soon enough, they’re completely focused on the task at hand once more, with headphones in and game-face on.

Tessa is still caught up in her specially collated playlist when they arrive at the arena, leaning back against the headrest with her eyes shut.

“Ready, kiddo?” He gives her shoulder a nudge when the bus pulls up.

“Ready.”

They make the short walk in together, though Tessa briefly goes back to grab the jacket she’d left in her seat. When she rushes to catch Scott up, he’s waiting obediently, a strange look on his face that she does her best to ignore. It doesn’t take long to work it out, though, once they start walking again.

“Hey, I found a penny,” Tessa calls out brightly as she stops in her tracks, immediately crouching down to pick it up to examine the coin. Studying it up close, Tessa notices, “It’s a Canadian penny.”

“Wow. What are the chances?” He fully commits to the feigned surprise, though the quality of his acting gives away the realization of his error.

“You’re sweet,” she tells him before falling into stride with him again to head to the changing rooms.

He doesn’t bother to protest. He clearly knows it won’t do him any favors to insult her intelligence. Instead, he just shoots a glance in her direction and it earns him a warm, slightly reserved smile. Even if the luck is manufactured, the thought counts for something. And no matter what the scores say today, she’s still going to feel like luckiest person alive when this is all over.

Their free hands swing by their sides as they walk and, even though she’s not about to hold hands with him here, in an arena bustling with reporters, coaches and fellow skaters, she lets the backs of her fingers brush against his. For now, it’s enough.

They do enough later, too, when it comes time for them to deliver a short dance worthy of first place. The performance proves just enough. An edge. 

It’s a questionable margin, but first place is categorical. And it feels good. The program flies by, popping and sizzling in all the right places. She can tell he feels the way she does just by the electricity that’s sparking off him, and she laughs breathlessly when she hears him say, “We’ve got to wait 24 hours? I want to go now.”

This time tomorrow, she realizes, it’s gold or silver. And gold starts to feel possible. More than possible.

When they get a moment alone, they allow themselves their private celebrations, enveloping one another in a tight hug. Their celebration is measured, but they allow themselves to enjoy it – partly, though neither one of them would dare say it aloud, for fear it’ll be their last chance to celebrate a lead. After a long embrace, he kisses her temple and reminds her, “But we didn’t come to win the short dance.”

Scott’s right. 

He’s right again the next day when he holds her close as part of their pre-skate routine – the most treasured part – and rouses her with his soft, simple message: “One last time. For you, for me.”

They come apart to look one another in the eye. Certain and smiling, she replies, “Yep.” 

“Let’s go.”

And then, somehow, everything is right. _Everything_. They skate last. They hit their opening positions and find themselves situated right on the axis of a two-year goal and the 20-year dream.

It’s triumphant. The program proves so perfectly crafted to create that spectacular crescendo, the crowd is drawn into every potent movement with breaths held and eyes unblinking. The twizzles earn an incredible roar – and it’s a good sign, _but don’t get carried away_ – and then the much-discussed lift that everyone’s been waiting for builds on that cheer, and then, finally, she steps onto Scott’s thighs for the curve lift and takes the roof off the arena. The explosion of energy fuels them to the very last second.

Scott is right again when he draws away from her once the final pose is hit, the music silenced and the applause echoing. He looks at her like they just won. Won the Olympics, won the jackpot, won the whole fucking thing. Scott looks exactly how she feels, and when he sweeps her off her feet, she can feel the adrenaline pulsing through his body.

She could stay in this particular moment an eternity. The dream is alive as long as they stay on the ice.

Tessa reminds herself to take it all in: the cheers, the flags, the faces of loved ones and teammates and fans from all over the world. More than anything, though, the feeling that they truly did what they set out to do. And they did it, much like everything else, _together_.

As they skate back to the boards, she wraps herself around Scott’s arm, pressing her head to his shoulder, and reminds him to do the same: to take it in. They turn together and share one last look around, side by side, before they fall into the arms of their coaches. That’s when she knows, whatever happens, _no regrets_. Whatever the score, there’s a satisfaction that comes with knowing that they did all they could, they fought till the end and they came out of it stronger than ever.

And then, sitting in the kiss and cry, she hears the words she’s heard a thousand times in her dreams: “Currently in first place.”

Then come the congratulations.

There’s Scott first. When he eventually lets her go, once Marie-France and Patrice have shared their moment, there are a thousand familiar faces suddenly appearing, beaming, wrapping their arms around her. There’s each member of the team who’s made it possible, and thanking them doesn’t feel like enough.

After a while, once manners have been observed and the moment arises, Marie-France discreetly signals to them and they manage to slip away. They disappear from view, out of sight of the adoring crowd that had been so emphatic in its collective, unanimous standing ovation.

Tessa goes first and then Scott, noticing that she’s gone, soon follows.

Once the four of them are alone, Scott lifts Tessa in another hug. Marie and Patch watch them briefly, with proud, parental smiles, before they turn to each other and do the same. In the midst of Scott's excited sways, Tessa catches their coaches hugging. It's the kind of hug that builds a force field around it, more and more impenetrable the longer it goes on. It's the kind of hug that's become her own pre-performance superstition. 

She nudges Scott to look, to watch and admire these two people who they've looked up to for so long. It's a moment to appreciate what they can be one day, a notion of what’s possible even 12 years on from an Olympic disappointment. 

This is the kind of moment that Scott specializes in. Particularly in the last few years, Tessa’s noticed the way he’s taken to hanging back and looking on appreciatively at every other person in the room, whether it's the way she herself interprets a movement, the way Marie-France translates choreography from the floor to the ice, the way Patch can identify just the right correction to refine a step sequence. Now, he's staring in wonder. There's a fond smile on his face when he turns his attention back to Tessa, reflexively placing a kiss – certain and firm – to her temple. 

Before long, Marie and Patch return their attention to their students, patting them on the back and giving another warm hug each. And then they let the two Olympic champions be alone again, leaving them locked in the privacy of another embrace.

When they come apart, Tessa’s eyes are wide and shining, the emotion of their moment sparkling on her lashes in the harsh fluorescent lights of the room. Scott's thumb gently sweeps away the wetness on her cheeks, his hand holding the side of her face as though the contact is all that's grounding him to reality. It's all that he has to prove it's not a dream, that she's not a hallucinatory vision just waiting to fade away.

She's not even conscious of her own hand settling on his face in perfect reflection.

And this moment passes in silence, the closest thing to ESP that Tessa's ever felt.

 _We're here. We made it. We won._

_We fucking won._

_We won the Olympics._

They simply look at each other, unabashed about their intense stares as their expressions evolve from head-shaking disbelief to bright smiles. There is complete unison. They are mirrors of each other, of the love and the pride and the joy that bursts from every pore. The togetherness they'd sought during every hug and every skate – they've got close a hundred times over, but it's this moment that transcends the rest. " _I'm so proud of you_ ," lives inside the look. Him to her. Her to him. And with that, " _I_ _love you so much_."

There is no doubt he understands.

She smiles in sync with his smile, and their tears are shared. When he leans to kiss her, Tessa is ready to meet his lips; she pulls him in, indulging the depth of his affection with total abandon. There'll be more later, there'll be more for the rest of her life, but for now, they bask in the relief of this private, familiar moment. It's a welcome antidote to the storm that awaits on the other side of the curtain. It’s theirs and only theirs, and it reminds her exactly what they have to protect. 

There's nothing delicate to their secret kiss; it's a release of the passion that had escalated through their Moulin Rouge program, culminating in the roof-raising lift that had her clenching her fists to the skies. It builds and builds, and they let it. Scott's arms wrap around her waist to eventually lift her feet off the ground.

When they part again, their foreheads move to each other. And finally, the silence is broken. Scott – his voice rough and low – says, “I wish this month could last forever.” 

“Don’t worry,” she whispers in his ear. “The best is yet to come.”

There’s another smile waiting for him when they pull away to look at each other. She knows how sure she is, a lifetime of nebulous uncertainty having been brought into sharp focus.

One day she’ll tell the world that there are some things that are better than gold. One day she’ll share the secret she’s had locked in her heart since the beginning. One day. Not today.

Today, this is theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed. :') TWO MORE TO GO, HUNS. We're almost there.


	28. dreams come true

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three updates in the span of about a week? *Jonathan Van Ness voice* CAN YOU BELIEVE. 
> 
> So, this might be the end of that little run. I'd like to finish things off before I go off on a my big ol' trip to the land of maple leaves and poutine, but I'm probably not going to have the final chapter polished off before then. It'll be with you asap! Until then, I hope you enjoy this. 
> 
> Thanks for making me smile always with your kind comments.

They don’t realize to begin with that the best week of their careers might also be the toughest of their relationship.

The last thing she wants is to spend hours playing down her feelings, so fresh and real and heightened, while things still feel delicate and new between them. But that’s exactly why she feels she has to. So, Tessa resists definition, pivoting and deflecting and repeating, “That’s such a compliment” in chorus with Scott. Only in their increasingly limited time alone does her heart open up at all.

While everyone wants a piece of them, they are rarely left to themselves. There are obligations and opportunities, too rich and exciting to be dismissed but laced with a sacrifice. The balance of public versus private teeters, and she struggles to steady it.

The speculation is relentless. It prompts the walls to go up, the world slamming its demanding hand down to signal the gates to close, freezing them in a kind of lockdown. No sudden movements, no slips of the tongue. Act natural.

They insulate themselves, attempting to savor every second of their fairytale Olympics while keeping the press talk professional.

A lack of sleep doesn’t help. They run on adrenaline, even more so than during the team event, and the side effects prove to be exactly the kind of endless verbal slip-ups, prolonged glances and dead giveaways she had sought so desperately to avoid. And Scott, poor Scott, has barely slept in days, his mouth running off a distance that his brain can’t seem to catch up with.

A rare opportunity for rest occurs when they’re travelling on the bus with some of the other Canadian athletes. It’s not intentional. They’re just utterly zapped. Without meaning to, without even realizing, they both drift gently off to sleep – almost perfectly in unison. Their guards down, in a state of unconsciousness, they gravitate towards each other. Her head on his shoulder. His body twisted towards her. Hands reaching for the other.

After they wake up and jolt apart, Tessa spends all of 10 minutes trying to talk one of the kids on the team into deleting a picture. Her irritation grows as she watches him weigh up the potential Instagram numbers with his desire to placate senior members of the national team. One disappointed-not-angry look from Scott accompanied by a feeble, “Come on, man…” is all it takes in the end.

They look at each other and there’s something there in Scott’s eyes that she can’t quite pinpoint. A distance. An apology. An unspoken question. He’s extricated himself from her for the sake of appearances but this feels like more.

 _It won’t always be like this,_ she wants to tell him. Or perhaps it’s just what she wants to hear. They share only a single, confounding look.

It’s not until the party that they can truly relax and let go.

They're dancing with other people – friends and teammates and support staff. It's a love-in; joy and release permeates the atmosphere as the Arkells fill the speakers. Tessa is hand-in-hand with Kaitlyn, dancing a choreographed step sequence they must have come up with some five or six years earlier at an otherwise unmemorable sponsor event, reserved only for parties such as this. Andrew's close by and looking on, grinning that wide, Hollywood-white smile that seems to appear every time Tessa sees the two of them together. 

Scott, on the other hand, has slipped away. Without looking directly, she's vaguely aware of his presence lingering at the back of the room, an arm around Chiddy as he talks loudly over the music to make comments in his friend's ear. His toque sits lopsidedly on his head, making him look further gone than she knows he is. 

There've been countless pats on the backs and congratulatory hugs from faces that are both familiar and unfamiliar. They’re getting used to that now.

Partly to avoid relentless congratulations in the politest way possible, Tessa dances like nothing he’s ever seen before. Not in 20 years. Unadulterated happiness and freedom bleeds out of every movement, every hair flick and flourish. The other part of it is him; it’s a playful effort to earn his attention, though Tessa doesn’t dare shoot more than a fleeting glance his way to review her success.

It’s only as the music fades out and she stills, the world slowing suddenly, that her vision starts to sharpen. They catch each other’s eyes, at last, and it’s dangerous. Suddenly, she realizes why they've been unofficially avoiding each other all night. Under the weight of his gaze, she forgets herself, forgets where she is and what's going on around her, forgets her own name. His gaze hardens to a stare, dark and unblinking. It pierces whatever protective bubble she’s formed around herself for the sake of public appearances, and even though there's distance and bodies between them, it feels as though he's up close. 

She dares to smile, then watches what it does to him. His arm falls from Chiddy's shoulders, prompting his long-suffering friend to look up at him – the question on his face soon answered when he follows the line of Scott's gaze.

Chiddy whispers something in his ear that makes him blush. She can't see the reddening of his cheeks under the dim light of the room but she can tell by the way he shrinks into himself ever so slightly, before shaking his head at Patrick; it's not a no, but something disbelieving. And as she's hypothesizing about the mysterious whisper, his attention turns back to her and he starts to approach, a path appearing between them like the parting of the sea. Everything else moves into the background; sound fades away, muffled like suddenly she's underwater, and everything but him becomes a blur in her periphery. 

The aperture of her attention is tight to the lines of his face. Her favourite. It's Scott, of course, but, more specifically, it's relaxed, happy, serene Scott. Maybe the happiest she’s ever seen him. He's wearing that big-eyed, adoring expression that catches her breath in her throat. The way he singles her out, even though he's been doing it on and off for every reason under the sun for two decades, still makes her feel special. And remembering that he's hers now, even if no one else around them knows (or knows for a fact), makes it all the more affecting. She gets him. She gets to be the one. The secret of it adds to the thrill. Her happy little secret. 

That's the feeling fizzing up inside her when he appears in front of her, his hand finding her waist instinctively. He disguises it as dancing with a sway. There's a moment when he seems to be about to kiss her, and her beer and a half mean that she's not about to stop him. But he hesitates, suddenly remembering their surroundings. 

They glance at the crowds around them to see if anyone saw the almost of it. It’s herds of people decked out in maple leaves and black and red plaid, too distracted by their own celebrations. It's only Eric who makes eye contact, his expression unreadable, before his attention turns back to a conversation with one of the skiers that Tessa didn’t catch the name of. 

There's barely relief. She doesn't care. In this moment, all she wants is Scott, and the hyper-focus of the last two years is suddenly replaced by a reckless impulse. (Perhaps it’s the alcohol. Or the abstinence.)

For some reason, he's careful. He leaves more distance than she desires. He talks to her the way he always would have, leaning only when she's straining to hear him above the music. Even that is enough for his breath to tease her cheek. 

"I made a request," he says, and she wonders if it's why he hasn't already grabbed her hand and dragged her away from the party. 

"What?" 

"We gotta stick around because they promised to play my request," Scott explains.

"What was your request?" She winces at every embarrassing hypothetical she can think of. 

"It's a surprise!" he tells her gleefully, giving a little shimmy along to the song the band is performing in the background. 

"I hate surprises."

"You'll like it." 

"Scott." 

"Tessa Virtue, I promise you – hand on heart – this is one surprise I guarantee you'll like. How long have I known you, eh? Come on, trust me."

She scrunches her face at him. He gives her nose a smug little tap. 

They're locked in a playful stare-down when the music stops, the song fading out to the cheers of the crowd. Suddenly, Max from the Arkells starts calling for Tessa. Her eyes go wide and Scott's smile does the same. Before she goes, he whispers, "Have fun," in her ear, and she's staring back at him quizzically as their teammates pull her towards the stage. 

When she gets there, Max teases out the moment before the opening bars of ‘You Make My Dreams’ start. Tessa lights up, knowing exactly what to do. It’s as instant as the flick of a switch, compelling her whole body to throw out wild movement in celebration.

“ _Well, well, you… you make my dreams come true_!” she sings out, dancing alongside the band’s frontman without a care of who’s watching. It doesn’t matter anymore. No more judges, no more scores. She can let loose, keeping her eyes closed as she smiles to herself and practically shouts along with the lyrics, flashes of those dreams they’re singing about rushing through her mind in a luminous haze.

An entire chorus passes by where she’s dancing and singing with her eyes shut tight before she looks out on the crowd again. It’s strange the way that her gaze lands on him. Hundreds of people all in red and white and, miraculously, it’s him she finds first. Him looking back at her like he’s lost in a deep reverie. Him she’ll always find. Him who made her dreams come true. _Oh yeah, well, well, you._  

When the song’s over, she rushes back to Scott. All of the excited energy comes bursting out and she throws her arms around him, her momentum swinging them both into a spin. She's still dizzy from the dancing, the drinking and the victory when she hears him whisper, his voice rough and low, "I fucking love you, T."

At the sound of that, she thinks maybe she'll feel this dizzy forever. Her eyes close to it and her hands move to the back of his head before she adjusts his toque. She pulls away to evaluate her efforts and finds him beaming, nothing but joy – boundless, beautiful joy – staring back at her.

"You wanna get out of here?" he says, and the twinkle in his eye as he does tells her that he already knows her answer. 

Tessa feigns a dramatic sigh. "Thought you'd never ask." 

She doesn't pay attention to whether people notice the way they disappear together, the way she slips her hand into his with her pinky caught between his index and middle fingers, the way they smile to themselves as they walk in stride. It doesn't matter. Suddenly the entirety of Team Canada is a trusted and true friend. And maybe that degree of patriotism will wear off by morning, but right now Tessa is riding out the buzz of her win: two golds and Scott Moir, all mixed up together. 

"Hold on," Scott says suddenly as they reach the exit. He dashes back to Andrew and whispers in his ear. Kaitlyn and Tessa exchange a look of confusion as the boys nods, then Scott gives Andrew a friendly pat on the back.

"What was that about?" Tessa asks when he comes running back to her.

"We're taking my room, they're taking yours," he explains, and Tessa can't help but laugh at the simplicity of the exchange, at the lack of haggling required. 

"That works out. He'll keep the place much cleaner than you would," she teases. 

"You can be as dirty as you like in my room, T," he replies, drawing out the sentence in a misguided – though not entirely unsuccessful, she accepts – attempt at something sexy.

Tessa furrows her brow and laughs at the suggestion.

He leads her away with renewed purpose, his hand taking hers until she catches up with a skip and he can wrap an arm around her shoulders. They look like any other couple on a night out together as they make their way back to Scott and Andrew’s room, sneaking into the block like giggly troublemakers. No one blinks an eye – and her ID gets checked by security as they head inside anyway – but the tipsy two commend each other on the success of their stealthy operation as they fall into his bedroom, words lost between rushes of urgent affection. 

They quickly fall onto the bed together.

“Couldn’t wait anymore,” he says, breathless and laughing and pulling at her t-shirt as they fall awkwardly into the single bed. He moves onto his knees to draw the top over her head, and then leans over her, his lips and hands moving everywhere. It’s impatient and eager.

She arches to meet him, matching his efforts by pulling him into a kiss. The kind that she used to daydream about, the kind that only has one endgame. It’s lips and tongues, but hands and bodies too. They move to each other like magnets, her hips rising as he presses down against her.

They make quick work of tearing off the rest of their clothes, and she opens her legs to make room for him.

There’s a look. And then the relief of finally getting what they really want, what they’ve wanted all week. It’s the chance to, at last, let the euphoria of victory transform into something tangible, something physical.

He moves inside her and she feels complete.

She has everything she ever dreamed of and it feels every bit as good as it should. And, most of all, she has him. Gold doesn’t seem half as bright and shiny as this thing between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. :') ONE MORE CHAPTER. We're almost there.


	29. home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [End of the Road – Boyz II Men.mp3]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that there was another little break before I posted this! Went to Canada, had the best time of my life, etc. etc. Back now and thanks to Tessa I have a new potential title for this fic: ‘what a wonderful thought it is that some of the best days of our lives haven’t happened yet’. Bit long? 
> 
> Also, [to the tune of Europe’s The Final Countdown] IT’S THE FINAL CHAPTER. All my gratitude goes to [Kristina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketofrice/pseuds/bucketofrice) and [Chrissy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsettodrop/pseuds/falsettodrop) for checking this one over – the pressure was getting to me.

When all is said and done, they're exhausted to an extreme that might outdo the aftermath of both previous Olympics. She wonders if perhaps they're showing their age, but the intensity of this particular Games has felt unmatched. The press coverage has been non-stop, with each interview seeming to stoke a fresh fire of interest. Compounding that, social media is a different beast than it was eight years ago, and even four years ago.

All eyes are on them and it’s painfully clear that it’s going to be hard. Harder than anything they imagined. Their bubble is well and truly burst, their cozy world of two invaded – not yet conquered.

She clings to a lie. He clings to her, hiding behind the safety of a picture-perfect façade.

And then there's the competition and the emotional aftermath of leaving it behind. It's been three weeks packed full of every emotion imaginable at its most heightened. The crash is inevitable.

They spend the first half of the flight home spitballing vaguely about the rest of their lives and touring and what comes next, until eventually they manage to sleep. It's a shallow, interrupted sleep that does little to energize them. Then it's a matter of steeling themselves to greet an airport full of well-wishers.

Once that’s over – pictures taken, babies held, gifts accepted – finally, they get their opportunity to rest. Away from the media circus, away from prying eyes.

Scott decides to go to Ilderton because he wants to be with his family after months of limited contact and time apart. He wants to be home. And Tessa only wants to be with him, so she goes too.

They hole up at Alma and Joe's, catching up and reminiscing and, well, sleeping in just about every corner of the house. They seem to have jointly fallen into vaguely narcoleptic habits. Drained from every spark of energy, their bodies surrender to two years' worth of fatigue. At one point, Scott's head starts to droop midway through dinner. Tessa's turn comes after Alma's key lime pie comes out, her body slowly starting to lean its weight over as she falls asleep against her partner’s shoulder. He's solid and warm and familiar, and her bed smells like him anyway, so the solution seems simple in her sleep-deprived state.

It becomes a pattern: curled up in the armchair, sitting on the floor, lying across the sofa, leaning against the banister, working behind the laptop, standing against the fridge, taking cover in a dusty closet during a misjudged game of hide and seek. Every little pause seems to invite a new wave of tiredness.

They sneak out for a few brief excursions: her house, his house, Kate's place, Loblaws, Tim Hortons. Little Quinn, meanwhile, appoints herself to be the official gold medal security guard after Scott hangs one of them around her neck, leaving her to parade around her grandparents’ home with beaming pride. (His tone soft despite the lingering hoarseness of his voice, he’d explained, “In that case, you have to keep this on because you’re the gold medallist of guarding our medals, Q. We gotta show everyone you’re a champ.”)

They get back from running a few errands on the second day and begin trying to readjust. Scott helps his mom and aunt prepare lunch before joining his nieces for a teddy bear tea party; Tessa takes the opportunity to catch up with Scott's cousins, recounting scattered memories from the last two weeks, the last two years, the last two decades.

After all too short a while, Scott's dozing off from his cross-legged position on the picnic blanket and is swiftly dismissed and replaced by Cara. Tessa watches with a wry smile but feels herself involuntarily zoning out from her conversation with Sheri. Her eyelids heavy, she watches Scott head into the lounge and squeeze himself onto the sofa beside Joe and Charlie. There's a game on, though he barely seems to take note of it, sinking into the cushions with an appreciative groan.

Tessa follows closely behind, finding no seats available. Predictably, with the cue of a smile from Scott, she finds a perch in his lap, curling up against him so that they almost instantly fall asleep together. Her face settles against his neck as his head falls back against the back of the couch.

The last thing she hears is the warm, hearty laughter of her father-in-law as Charlie says, "What's the betting she's still a snorer?" 

_I do_ not _snore_ , she very emphatically thinks to herself. But she's drifted off before the words can leave her lips.

When Tessa stirs again, she wavers inside a liminal space between sleep and waking, distantly aware of her surroundings but savouring the moment of solace. She can feel Scott’s hand tenderly stroking through her hair. There’s a steady rhythm to it that makes it seem absent-minded, like perhaps he’s still asleep too, grounding himself to her even in his slumber. His hand guides gently down the length of her hair, lingering on the ends before his fingers twist it between them and then comb through. He lets it fall away from his grip, moving lower to rub the expanse of her back with a comforting firmness. The motion elicits a low, quiet moan.

“You wanna go lie down upstairs?”

The sound of his voice is rough and groggy as he leans down to whisper to her, his breath teasing the shell of her ear. Without opening her eyes, she nods just a little.

Straight away, she feels Scott start to readjust their position so that he can lift her up – a hand settling still on her back, the other scooping up her legs. “C’mon then, kiddo,” she hears, his croaky voice cracking ever so slightly.

In response, Tessa loops her arms around his neck, burrowing into his chest as she feels her weight shift into his hold: strong and familiar and safe. Before she knows it – because time, in this hazy, dreamlike state is an abstract concept – he’s laying her across the bed, his index finger guiding her hair out of her face. She shifts a little to get under the comforter and Scott’s quick to pull it up for her.

She moans into the pillow, letting out a muffled “Get in here,” before pulling on the hem of his hoodie until he surrenders, sliding in next to her without a word. As she turns onto her side, she feels him press a kiss to the line of her shoulder. His hand sweeps around her, settling on her stomach as he lines himself up behind her to be the big spoon.

Later, and it feels like days later, Tessa finds herself alone when she wakes again. The clock shows it’s 10:15 and there’s little noise coming from the house. It’s dark out, conclusively evening, even though her body is telling her otherwise. She sits up, wiping her bleary eyes in the hope that they might reveal Scott, the lack of him around her provoking an aching disappointment. The sting of it takes her by surprise, compelling her to shift over to his side of the bed in search of whatever warmth is left there.

That’s when she notices the letter, written across two sheets that are laid flat on his nightstand. It’s discarded next to its envelope.

_He read it. He waited._

Shocked to action and struggling to remember the jumble of feelings that she had once written for him, Tessa rushes to pick it up.

It's different reading it now; she's reading it and imagining him taking in every word of it in a new context, the intimacy of their interwoven lives now affirmed. It's a time capsule. It's a reminder of the permanence of her feelings for Scott juxtaposed with the ephemerality of her hesitation. Because now it's a running jump she'll take every morning before her coffee. It's the most certain thing in her life: his hand belongs in hers. In every setting, in every timeline, in every version of Tessa and Scott. It feels more right than having the medal around her neck, gleaming gold, with a chorus of 'O Canada' out-sung – in volume, at least – by the man at her side.

And there, inside the letter, is the preservation of one night in the midst of anticipation. It’s a memento of the difference it makes to be together now in every sense, a souvenir of a 20-year emotion. 

>   _Dear Scott,_
> 
> _(I truly don’t know how to start this off but, okay, wow, you’ve definitely stopped writing yours already. Is it only one line? If you’ve just written a bad joke, I’m leaving the country and you’ll never see me again.)_
> 
> _So, I know you want me to open up. I know you’re frustrated. I’m sorry if I’m holding back from you; it’s not my intention. I just can’t shake the fear. Because I do love you. I wish I could tell you. It’s the stupid, great big, dumb love that they make films about. It stretches out around me, enveloping my whole life in one overwhelming feeling. It’s the feeling that maybe you’re the only one. Maybe this isn’t the normal thing we used to think it was, the bond we took for granted sometimes even when we pretended we understood it._
> 
> _How could we possibly understand this? We were kids. No one tells you then, at that age, that this is what it’s going to be like – love, that is – so how were we to know what to do with it? Maybe the stars aligned a little too early is all. You’re not supposed to fall in love at seven years old – not a great big love like this. But I did. And it won’t seem to go away. You’re unshakable. I’ll be stuck loving you – whatever you do, whatever you say when you read my letter – until I’m old and grey and still wearing the same crumbling skates, much to your distress._
> 
> _Even if it’s not a happy ending, even if it’s not the perfect life I’ve imagined, I’m happy I’ve loved you. It’s worth it to love you, to watch you shine and know that it isn’t even half the light you have inside you. All I need is for you to be okay. All I want is to be witness to you, to your talent and your heart and your greatness._
> 
> _I wish I knew why the timing never worked, why we always seem to fall apart so spectacularly. Is it fear? If it is, I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I want to hold hands and jump off the cliff together._
> 
> _I hope beyond hope that by the time you’re reading this, we’ve won another Olympics but, whatever happens, I have to show all my cards in case they match with yours. In case you mean it when you look at me that way that only you can. (Do you know what it does to me? Also, I can see you twiddling your thumbs right now with a near-blank page while I’m over here pouring my heart out. I really hope you’re taking this seriously.)_
> 
> _Scott, I need you to know all of this, the fullness of my heart and how it beats for you, before we rush into something. You want something to happen; that’s why I’m even writing this ridiculous letter (and yes, I do know that it’s ridiculous and I’m ridiculous) but let that something be forever before you claim just a moment. If you still feel what you felt then – here, tonight, in the heat of the moment – you can take everything I have. It’s waiting for you. I’ve been waiting all this time._
> 
> _I can’t imagine my future with anyone else._
> 
> _I’ve loved you since you first took my hand (or my giant mitt). What I feel for you is overwhelming and I hope you can forgive how long it’s taken me to say it. I needed time and I worry I might’ve taken too much of it, but when you look into my eyes, I do see forever. I hope that’s real. I desperately hope that it is._
> 
> _You were the first person I ever gave my heart to and you’ve kept it ever since. It’s yours and it will never belong to anyone else._
> 
> _So, in the words of Carly Rae Jepsen… call me, maybe?_
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Your T_

Tessa takes in a long, uneven breath. 

He must’ve read it while she’d slept beside him. She’s left to wonder when he’d woken up, or whether he’d simply waited for her to fall asleep in his arms.

Sliding into his loafer slippers, she pads downstairs in search of Scott. Instead, she finds Alma pottering around the kitchen alone. “Tessa,” his mother greets her, the tone of it carrying warm concern. “You must’ve been exhausted.”

Running her hands through her hair, suddenly self-conscious of the many hours she must’ve spent asleep in this house at all hours of the day, Tessa replies, “Yeah, sorry about that. Umm, do you… Do you know where Scott is?”

“Went for a walk, honey.”

That’s all Alma needs to say before Tessa realizes exactly where Scott is. And she smiles to herself because he’s just so _Scott_. 

“Listen,” Alma continues, “I’m off to bed now, but I’ve made you a little soup in case you two get hungry, okay?”

“Oh, you didn’t have to. Thank you.”

Alma just nods in acknowledgement before passing Tessa on her way out. She stops suddenly in the doorway, turning to say, “He was in a strange mood when he left. A little dazed.” 

Tessa watches Alma disappear. The thought of Scott’s strange mood stirs a feeling of mild panic that Tessa attempts to suppress. Based on her gut judgment about Scott’s location, she quickly runs back up to his old room to pick up some essential items. It’s not long before she heads out, stopping again only briefly in the hallway to wrap herself up in one of his old puffer coats. The warmth of it instantly hugs her, and she pulls it tighter around herself to savour it all the more.

It’s not a long journey to find him.

On her way up to the doors of Ilderton Skating Club, she can't miss the singular black Olympic ring that hangs just to the left of the entrance. "Welcome to the home ice of Scott Moir and Tessa Virtue, Olympic and world ice dance champions," the sign reads, shining in the moonlight. Her name's there, of course, but she smiles, more than anything, because it reflects how much Scott means to this place. Almost as much as this place means to him.

Her suspicions are confirmed when the doors pull open, unlocked. When she wanders inside, he’s exactly where she expects.

"They give you the keys to this place now?" she calls out, smiling to herself as he turns around to follow her voice. He takes a few strokes towards her before slowing. Tessa leans her forearms onto the boards. 

"Keys to the whole town, I think."

Raising her eyebrows, Tessa remarks, "You know, just because you’ve won a few Olympic medals, doesn’t mean you can just come and go in here as you please.”

She expects him to continue their easy back-and-forth but instead he allows the silence to settle. It hangs between them for a while until, eventually, she’s the one who breaks it.

"What're you doing out here?"

He digs both hands into his pockets before giving a sweet little shrug, carrying an unusual shyness in his disposition. "I just… wanted to remember what it felt like."

"To be on the ice?” 

"Yeah, and here, on _this_ ice," he explains, his voice thick with feeling or fatigue, or some combination of the two. Each word scrapes its way out as he continues, "We were so young back then, eh? No clue about what was coming our way."

"Thankfully."

Scott’s sleepy smile lifts as he nods, a wistful look in his eyes as he takes in their surroundings. "We've been pretty lucky, kiddo. Of all the rinks you could've walked into, you just had to walk into mine.” He stops to take in a deep breath. “And we did it. Made our dreams come true," he reminds her – or perhaps himself, shaking his head a little with an empty laugh. "How many people can say that?"

Her words are faint and gentle to match his. "We found each other. Me and you.”

Tessa watches his whole body heave out a heavy sigh, and when his attention returns to her, he holds her stare for a long while before asking, "You coming out here or what?"

"It's like the middle of the night, Scott." Though she means to sound vaguely scolding, her tone is filled with too much affection to have any bite.

"You brought your skates, didn't you?" It's almost a tease.  _Prove me wrong_ , his smug grin dares her.

Tessa rolls her eyes. Because, well, "Yeah, I brought 'em."

"Get over here, T." He gives a silly hand gesture to wave her over, the insistence of it playful and soft and impossible to resist. His hair is fluffy and unkempt from days of nothing but intermittent sleep, and he's wrapped up in another of his thickest, coziest jackets; naturally, all she wants is to wrap her arms around him.

She sits to lace her skates and when she looks up, he's stroking across the length of the rink as he waits. He squats in a spread eagle, stretching out his legs before readjusting to a simple glide, almost careless as he lifts a knee up to skate on one leg before alternating.

"I hope you're not warming up for anything," she warns him, her eyes not looking up from her well-worn skating boot.

"Just checking that the legs still work," he calls back.

"They better. We've still got the tour."

When she's ready, Tessa glides out onto the ice, laying her guards out on the boards carefully before heading towards Scott. There's a glimmer of temptation that passes between them that they could  _maybe_  launch into a lift – unspoken and effortless – but the full-body fatigue lingers, and they silently laugh off the notion in unison.

She settles in front of him, noting his visible anticipation of the talk they’re about to have. Like ripping off a Band-Aid, she decides to broach it without stalling, cautiously uttering, "So, you read my letter?"

They look at each other in a nervous stare-down. No sudden movements, not when they’re this close to the edge.

Eventually, he admits, "I read it," before gliding bashfully in a circle around her as she spins to watch him. And then it’s out there: "It was the first thing I wanted to do when we got back, as soon as I could keep my eyes open for long enough. It was all I wanted to do.” He stops still in front of her, the abrupt halt causing a dusting of ice to fly up. “Fuck, Tess, I love you. I ever tell you that? I love you so much, it’s, man, it’s overwhelming.” Scott laughs at himself, just a little – a dry, embarrassed laugh, resigned to his own inability to stop it all from spilling out. “I’ve tried to keep a handle on it – which you know isn’t really my thing – but I just… I just want to love you now.”

The way he bursts to life, the words rushing out of him in joyful relief, brings a surge of tears to the surface. Tessa can’t help but laugh them out, sighing just to catch her breath.

“I really… loved your letter. I’m sorry I didn’t write more in mine—”

“No, Scott, Scott. Yours was perfect.”

He looks at her with no small amount of scepticism.

“It was perfect.”

“I should’ve… Everything you said is how I feel too. I’m not a writer, but I should’ve—”

“Scott, I knew. You said plenty.” She rests a hand flat on his chest to insist, “Yours was _you_. It was perfect. It just took me longer to get to the same point.”

Scott breathes out, his chest lifting against her hand. He shifts a little closer, almost imperceptibly, and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “Tess, for a million reasons I don’t care about, this shouldn’t work,” he says quietly, his voice softening as he stills in front of her, edging forward again to thumb away her tears. “I mean… _fuck_ , seven and nine? What the fuck was the universe thinking? What were _our families_ thinking?”

The way his eyes go wide and cartoonish to emphasize his point draws out that same big laugh she’s had since she was a kid. The incredible relief of it, the liberation of being able to finally, finally talk about all of it is something entirely new.

“You’re like… champagne, Tess, and I’m a shoddy beer.” His hands settle on her waist, his eyes seeking hers out as his head shakes along with every word. “You can do anything, and I’m just relieved I found this one thing. We’re so different, and maybe we want different things at different times. I don’t know. We’ve been avoiding really talking about that and planning ahead for months now, but, see, the thing is… I want to make it work. That has to count for something, right? I want to make it work so badly, because nothing—” He cuts himself off to let out an empty laugh, shaking his head. “Nothing in my life works without you.”

It’s as simple for him as it is for her.

And, at last, her breath evens out.

“I know you don’t really believe in soulmates, T, but I gotta tell you… it’s kind of ironic, because you’re the one who made me believe. We worked at it, I know, and it’s as much about the two of us committing to that work as anything else but… the idea of my life without you in it, of ending up with anyone but you? It’s not really… It’s not an option.”

She places her palm gently to his cheek, moving to rest her forehead against his. When she says, “I’m in love with you,” what had seemed so complicated for so many years suddenly feels so incredibly simple.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So, what you wanna do for the rest of our lives?”

“Well, we don’t have to figure it all out tonight, do we?” she reminds him, light and upbeat. She scrunches her nose a little as she reaches out to place her other hand on his shoulder. “We’ve got time.”

“We do.” He’ll give her that. “It’s just… where to begin, eh?”

Tessa raises her hands up and looks around once more, letting her momentum on the ice pull her away from him to create a little distance. “This seems as good a place as any to start the next chapter.”

With that, she whizzes off.

The sound of her laughter echoes around the rink as Tessa speeds up the glide of her blade, sensing Scott quick on her tail. She anticipates his timing exactly, leaving her hand out for him to sweep up into his own. The two of them effortlessly fall into stride together, zooming around the full perimeter of the rink like two kids who’ve just learned to ride their bikes. It becomes their playground. They hold hands. They race. They play-fight. And then, when their wave of energy and euphoria ebbs away, they move to each other with an innate understanding of what the other needs. Scott takes her head in his hands to draw her back in, calm and slow but without an ounce of hesitation in his eyes. He holds her face in front of his, just looking at her, awe and love etched into his expression like it’s always been there but she’s only now finding it in the right light. She gazes back at him, a mirror.

That’s when he kisses her. He kisses her like his whole life depends on it. He must know by now that it could never come down to a single kiss. And yet. And yet – _this_.

It starts with a tender brush of his thumb across her bottom lip but when his mouth moves to hers, the restrained gesture proves to be false advertising. He deepens the kiss with intent, his tongue finding hers, their breaths meeting as their bodies fuse together. It’s indulgent and languid. Their exhaustion makes them sloppier than normal, eliciting moans that she would usually reserve for the privacy of their home.

The burst of passion, rather like their spurt of energy, burns out too. Their embrace softens to a hug. It’s that instinct again, that innate knowledge of what the other one is thinking, feeling, wanting.

It’s comfort, love, home.

"I'm so happy and so tired," she says at last, her laughter coming out as a release when she looks up at him. Scott's expression is serious still, studying her carefully as she tries to gather her emotions. His hand rests tenderly on her cheek to clear up a few runaway tears.

Tessa moves her hands inside his jacket, running from his chest to loop around his back so that she's pressed tightly against him. The added warmth of the coat falling around her and his body heat washes over her and, relishing the comfort of it, she moves to hide her face in his neck as Scott's head bows to do the same. His hands rest firm on her lower back. This embrace has all the familiarity of their favourite superstition, with the heightened intimacy of an empty rink, a dream come true and the promise of something that is built to last. 

They stand there so close together, their silhouettes become one. Their bodies align naturally, fitting into place, every breath shared in a steady rhythm.

It’s Scott who breaks it in the end. He moves his hands to her head to kiss her on the cheek before pulling away and studying her face again – checking for tears, perhaps. At last, there aren’t any left to wipe away. The care in his eyes stirs an irrepressible smile that does little to convey the butterflies in her stomach. He looks so sleepy, or perhaps it’s that groggy state of having slept too long, but there’s no hint of grumpiness; his gaze is heavy but adoring, those eyes carrying all the expression of a smile without his lips having moved.

_This is what it feels like to be loved_ , she thinks to herself. It’s like finally putting words to an abstract emotion she’s been feeling for as long as she can remember. It eradicates every lingering doubt in her mind. When she looks at him looking at her, it’s her own love brought to life. It’s her feelings captured in a picture. It’s one for the photo albums, one that’ll get logged away in the memory bank forever. It’s a look not so different from the many other times they’ve caught eyes in 20 years, except the filters are off now, and at last, she accepts, _it’s time_.

He wraps an arm around her shoulders and, steadily, they skate back to the boards, side by side. Every step is made in perfect synchronicity.

When they’re almost at the edge, Scott’s hand moves down to slide into hers. Her pinky slips between his index and middle fingers like a key in a lock. She squeezes tight and wraps her other hand around his forearm.

At last, they step off the ice. Together, hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I go, I just wanted to say: I can’t fully express how motivating and inspiring it’s been to see people comment so enthusiastically on chapter after chapter of my writing. I never would’ve made it all the way to Chapter 29 without your input. Thank you for making this whole thing so much fun! (And also sorry to those who might’ve been like, ‘When will it end?’ since Chapter 19.)
> 
> To all of you who’ve said lovely things, whether about Tessa and Scott or about my writing, you’re utterly wonderful. I would encourage you whole-heartedly to keep spreading thoughtful, kind, generous compliments to fic writers everywhere. It’s hugely encouraging and the best thing you can ever do if you hope to see many more stories in the future and, yes, I should definitely also comment more. 
> 
> I’ve got a couple of ideas planned for the future so you may see me again. For now, thanks for everything!


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